


A Lantern, a Waterskin and a Hole in the Ground

by CosmicHobbit



Category: Norse Mythology, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Gen, Loki Does What He Wants, Loki Feels, Now that Thor 2 is coming out that is, Post Avengers, So does Sigyn, prisoner/guard dynamic, re-imagined Sigyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicHobbit/pseuds/CosmicHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the recovery of the Tesseract the Asgardians stranded throughout the Nine Realms can at last return home. Some return to loved ones and respite, and others return to face duties of a more...arduous nature.</p><p>cross-posted from fanfiction.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been bitten by the Avengers bug so badly. Like, Sherlock-obsessive badly. So naturally I have to express this love through fanfic. Let me preface this by saying that I took from both Marvel and Norse mythology for this fic and further explanation can be found at the bottom of the page.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing except some snark. I will always claim some snark. Though most of it belongs to Loki.

The brilliant glow of the tesseract’s power dissipates and she drinks in the towers of Asgard that rise above the fragments of the Bifrost. They shine in the brilliant starlight like the golden halls of Valhalla and she breathes deep the familiar clear air of home. 

It is a welcome change from the smoke-ridden wasteland of Muspelheim. 

A group of eager Asgardians has gathered on the bridge to welcome them. Their conversations fall into expectant silence at their arrival. 

Theoric calls the order and the company breaks with a cheer. They rush forward over the rainbow bridge, embracing (and outright tackling) loved ones, friends that have not been seen in three years: a blink of an eye, yes, but when one is stranded on a world of molten fire and ash the time does begin to drag. 

She finds Sif and Hogan and in a rare show of emotion, they embrace her from either side. 

“You smell like a forge,” Sif quips. 

A hush falls on the rowdy crowd when Thor arrives, cape billowing as he swings from his horse. Theoric shouts for attention and the company hastily reconvenes into sloppy lines, fists over hearts in deference to the crown prince. 

Thor holds his solemn composure for another few seconds. Then his face cracks into its trademark grin and he pulls a startled Theoric into a bear hug with a happy roar. 

“Welcome home, my friend!” 

Theoric gasps something resembling a greeting as best he can while Thor is cutting off his oxygen supply. Their commander thus subdued, the company takes this as their cue and breaks apart, joyful murmurs bubbling up once again. The crowd wanders up the Bifrost, the sound of laughter carrying toward the shining city. The company from Muspelheim gradually covers the welcoming Asgardians as well as the rainbow bridge with dark streaks of soot, though no one seems to mind. 

She makes to follow when a hand on her shoulder stops her. 

“Would you accompany me up the bridge, my lady?” 

She raises her gaze to meet Thor’s and sees age in his eyes, weariness around the corners not present when she left three years before. It is understandable; the Bifrost’s destruction surely weighed heavily on Odin and the rest of the royal family. It is only because the Tesseract was recovered that the Red Hawks have returned to Asgard at all. She decides not to press Thor for the story, just yet. She will know why the bridge lies in pieces soon enough, now that she is home. 

Home. She cannot stop the grin from spreading across her lips as she accepts Thor’s offer. 

They chat amicably as they pass through the gates and the city engulfs them in warmth and brilliance unparalleled in any of the Nine Realms. She struggles not to jump and reach for her sword at the onslaught of noise, the sudden press of people. She has been living in a volcanic cave for far too long. 

She is escorted straight into the throne room, despite her protestations. Her boots and armor leave a light trail of black ash on the golden floor and she struggles not to blush. She is surprised not to see Theoric or anyone else from her company. Only Odin waits, standing before the throne, Gungir in hand. 

She kneels, fist to heart. The Allfather’s expression is warm when she rises. 

“Welcome home, brave warrior.”

Her spine straightens as warmth floods her. “Allfather. No words can hope to describe the joy in my heart to be home again.” 

Odin’s smile does not reach his eyes. “You must forgive your king his impatience, to bring you away from your loved ones so quickly.”

She blocks the thought that her only loved ones were with her in Muspelheim, keeping her focus on what she is sure is a foreboding expression on the Allfather’s face. She can almost taste the bad news in the air. Her fingers twitch of their own accord, seeking the reassurance of her sword hilt in her palm. She stifles the motion, waits for Odin to state his business. 

“I am sure you wish to know the circumstances of the Bifrost’s destruction.”

This is unexpected. She fumbles for a moment. “I….yes, my lord, but I…”

“Why have I not assembled the rest of your company? They will hear the tale in time. I wished you to know immediately, so that you might accept the task I am appointing to you with clarity of mind.” 

A glance at Thor’s carefully blank face reveals nothing. She has never seen the eldest prince of Asgard so composed, in fact. Ice settles in her stomach, the prelude to a gruesome battle. She salutes the Allfather once again. 

“I am at your disposal, my lord.” 

Suddenly she is painfully aware of the irregularities of the throne room. Frigga is absent, which would not be too unusual, given that she is the only subject to which the Allfather is addressing. However….

“My lord?” She blurts before Odin can speak. “Where is Loki?” 

Thor’s face does crack then, like a chasm has opened and swallowed him whole. Her blood pounds in her veins and she can’t seem to stem the adrenaline flooding her system. The Allfather’s voice is as jagged as corroded iron. 

“That,” he sighs “is where the tale begins.” 

 

**************************

 

Her skin is clean, free of ash for the first time in years. The sky is once again full of stars and branches of the galaxies instead of fumes and roiling black clouds and yet she descends to the lowest reaches of the palace, miles below the last window. Her brief glimpse of the city, of home is not enough to steel her self against the coming task. To make matters worse, her sword, her trusted friend that saved her from the horrors of Muspelheim, is no longer at her side. None of her weapons have passed the dungeon’s gates; she feels their absence like a missing limb. Her fingers twine in the fabric of her tunic sleeves, gripping it tightly. 

There is no window to mark the cell; there is barely a door. A slab of rock is pushed inward to reveal the cell. The guard hands her a small lantern and she takes cautious steps into the dark. She only has a second to see the body strung up the wall in chains before the door closes behind her with a solid scrape of rock against rock. 

The cell stretches into eternity outside of the lantern’s little circle of light. She forces her feet slowly across the floor, unwilling to risk stumbling or tripping over the low stone table she knows is nearby or –Odin forbid- him. When the lantern light catches the glint of metal that covers his mouth, she kneels and places the lantern carefully between them. 

She slides her fingers along the muzzle until they find the catches-one on each side. It is a thorough trap. It falls heavy into her hands and she places it on the ground by the lantern. She uncorks her waterskin and tilts his chin until he can drink. 

That task completed, she takes the lantern and gropes through the cell for the stone slab that serves as a table. She places the lantern, concentrates, then casts the light into the corners of the cell with a small push of magic, illuminating them both. 

He watches her without word for a long stretch of time. She expects as much, and perches on the stone table, dispassionately takes note of the new scars, hollow cheeks and distinct increase in visible ribs jutting out from a concave chest. She wills her breathing to stay even, draws on the well of calm in her mind and waits. It is the most difficult part, she knows. Once the biting words begin to fly she will be able to focus. Her mind is at its most composed in battle. 

“Sigyn.”

She meets his sharp green gaze, hoping the relief isn’t apparent on her face. His lips curl into a feral grin. “You look well.” 

“You do not, Loki.” 

The grin freezes. Sigyn takes advantage of the opening and continues. “It is a shame to meet again like this. I would have preferred to walk outside.” 

Loki snarls softly. “End your visit early, then. Go with my highest blessing back to Asgard and all of its beauty. Take your fill of me, and revel in the contrast when you emerge and behold your beloved golden city.”

Sigyn resists the urge to drum her fingers on the stone. She had not expected such despondency from him, chains and perpetual darkness notwithstanding. She almost feels pity for him before she remembers to whom she is speaking. Force of habit dictates that she give nothing that comes from his mouth within the first ten minutes any credence. She throws her next verbal dart with a clean conscience. 

“I am the new prison guard. I am afraid it will be long before I have had my fill of you.” 

Loki shifts in his bonds, ensuring that the chains rattle and scrape against the walls of the cell. He bows his head, reticent. 

“How fitting,” he murmurs almost to himself. Sigyn shrugs. 

“I did not question the Allfather.”

That comment draws his eyes to hers again. He watches her intently as the moments become minutes. Sigyn fights to meet his blank stare evenly, maintain a casual stance. 

“Didn’t you?” he finally asks. 

Sigyn guesses that he is asking about more than Odin’s orders. She hedges,

“At least I may carry out my service in Asgard. The fires of Muspelheim do not agree with me.” 

Loki blinks, the only sign her deflection surprised him. But he plays along, for motives unknown to Sigyn. 

“So that is the source of the charred smell.”

“I assure you, it is the scent of victory,” Sigyn retorts loftily. Loki’s lips twist into the second cousin of a grimace.

“I am certain that your company battled heroically, even with the knowledge that they might never return home. I wonder, then, why is such valor rewarded with such an unpleasant task, mere hours after your victorious arrival?” 

Sigyn’s eyes narrow. How did Loki know of their return so quickly? He was imprisoned in a hole in the ground. A brief memory of Thor’s bowed shoulders in the throne room flashes in her mind’s eye and the thunder god’s weariness, she realizes, stems not only from age or new humility. Thor grieves for his brother, despite all of this, perhaps even hopes for some kind of reparation from Loki, from his brother.

The evidence of Thor’s attention lies in Loki’s statement; Thor must visit him regularly, bring him news of the happenings of Asgard, if not the rest of the Nine Realms. She doubts any other would deign to visit the God of Mischief for reasons other than punishment or scorn. The pragmatist in her silently berates Thor for providing his brother with knowledge even as she feels a small pang of guilt for having to think so lowly of Loki in the first place. She pushes it all aside impatiently. 

“Oh, the tales I could tell,” Sigyn sighs, feigning wistfulness for the fiery battles, “We will be drunk on Asgard’s finest mead for at least a week, to properly celebrate our noble quest. I suppose it goes without saying that we retrieved the runestone. The trick was to hold on to it until a path back to Asgard was found.” 

She knows-or postulates with a moderate amount of certainty- that her open deflections will begin to grate on the trickster’s nerves. Underneath the flippancy, she presses the question of the Bifrost’s destruction, even as Loki demands, in his underhanded way, that she bring it up first. Was he searching for an accusation, or some sign of her forgiveness? One glance in hardened emerald eyes gives her the obvious answer. He is accustomed to condemnation. Sigyn will try her best not to mention it first, to give him the opportunity to lash out and subsequently seal the rest of him off from her. 

She must fight against that steadily thickening layer of ice surrounding the younger prince of Asgard. True, Odin did not put it so…dramatically, but his order carried the same message. 

She is called loyal because the title pig-headed does not suit a citizen of Asgard. Sigyn would bet her life this is why she was chosen. 

Loki shifts and swallows; Sigyn notices new tracks of blood dripping from his wrists. The smell that isn’t quite a smell, the sense of a disturbed current of magic wafts from the shackles that stretch his arms out to either side, flush against the wall. Loki unfolds and rises to his feet, as if to counteract the image of a bleeding god. Sigyn catches the glance he casts at her waterskin and rises as well. 

This time she does not touch him, but allows her wrist to slip and some of the cool water sloshes down the back of his neck. He lets out a small sigh. Sigyn steps back to lean against the table, folds her arms. 

“Theoric will be greatly honored,” Loki says, neutral. “Perhaps the weeklong inebriation will give him the courage to make you his wife at last.”

Sigyn’s hands clench around her biceps, a defensive instinct. Loki’s smirk is knowing. 

“How considerate of you to make such happy predictions,” she deadpans, nearly choking on the word happy. It’s a flimsy barrier, especially because he is aware of how the rumors affect her. Had he not known, the strain in her stance would have given her away. 

“Yes, I aim to please,” he purrs, “What a lovely bride you will be, give or take a battle scar. The good commander Theoric does not seem to mind your flaws.” 

Only the knowledge that his information is dated by three years prevents her from lunging at him and shoving a thumb into his eye, royal mandate be damned. The exile in Muspelheim had at least provided Sigyn with the opportunity to corner Theoric and exorcise him of the desire to marry her, without the eyes of the court of Asgard pressing down on her, demanding that she justify her refusal with something besides ‘I do not wish to spend eternity bound to him, because I don’t want to, that’s why’. She begins to pace; it is useless to hold the façade of indifference on this sore subject anyway. 

Her flaws. He did not mean the scar that drags across her cheek, not entirely. But what else did she have that would garner disapproval from Theoric, from anyone? Then she remembers where she is standing and why and sudden clarity ceases her restless movement. 

“No,” she agrees, trailing a finger across her marred cheekbone absently, “He does not mind any of my flaws. He does tend to rankle at some of my decisions, however.” 

Loki’s face is impassive, carved from pale stone. 

“But he knows, as does everyone,” she spits it out with more venom than she intends, “that my sense of duty is unparalleled in all of the Nine Realms. Fortunately, some duties far outweigh others in importance.” 

She stands before him, head titled to see his deep green eyes, completely shielded behind an indifferent mask. Sigyn can almost hear the cogs and gears turning as he digests the layered statement. He cocks his head, lifts one eyebrow. 

“And what duties weigh most heavily on Sigyn’s scales?” he muses. He shifts in his bonds, ribs sliding underneath taut skin with the movement. Sigyn’s lips quirk. 

“At this moment? I owe my stomach a banquet of Asgardian’s finest delicacies. To fail my hunger is to shirk duty of the highest import.” 

That startles a huff of laughter from Loki and Sigyn mentally raises a fist in triumph. 

“Theoric will be heartbroken to fall behind roasted pheasant in your eyes,” Loki grins, but Sigyn is prepared for the barbs now and simply pushes on. 

“My next duty? The task the Allfather has appointed me.” 

Loki lets his head tilt back to fall against the wall with a soft thud, smile losing what mirth it once held. 

“Alas, I am the one whose heart is crushed by pheasant,” he drawls. He lets his head loll to the side, sneers up at her through stray locks of black hair. Despite the sarcasm in his tone Sigyn feels a trickle of panic down her spine. Beneath the dramatics she hears him retreating, replacing any genuine interest in the conversation with a mocking act and he knows that she will be able to recognize such an obvious front. Damn it to Hel, Sigyn growls at him silently, you will not throw the game board across the room now. 

She uses the last weapon she has: honesty. 

“My third and final duty,” she keeps her voice quiet, forcing him to lean forward to hear, “is to a lost and broken friend, though what that task entails I am not entirely sure.” 

Loki makes a wordless sound of rage, snapping the chains taut. Sigyn is not positive if she has failed in that moment or if she at last has gained a foothold. 

“So you would bestow your righteous pity on me?” Loki snarls, feral in his anger. “You would join with Thor, imploring day after day until the worlds crumble to dust that I return the little Prince of Asgard to your arms? He never existed!”

“He never left!” Sigyn shouts back, tact thrown to the wind in favor of blind frustration. 

They are inches apart, both comfortable in the familiar haze of a fight. Loki’s eyes shine with a manic light and Sigyn witnesses the hollow face of the madman that sought to destroy worlds. She wants to put a fist through his temple. 

“No, Sigyn. I can never be what I never was. You were raised with a monster in your midst, nothing more. Nothing less. A Jotun in Asgardian skin. Take your childish notions and leave me in my den. You will find nothing of your friend here.”

The only sound then is Loki’s labored breathing, punctuated by Sigyn’s controlled huffs through her nose. 

Slowly, slowly, Sigyn’s murderous glare softens to an exasperated scowl. 

“Are you quite finished?” 

Loki’s jaw drops and Sigyn fights a fit of hysterical laughter at the sight. 

“You-,” he sputters, “Did you hear nothing that the Allfather told you? Sigyn!” 

His shout is almost plaintive as she abruptly turns away from him to retrieve the water skin. At a backward glance, she notes his eyes are still wild but panic has crept in, edging out the rage. Not entirely, but enough. 

She returns and offers him a drink. He shuts his eyes and takes another swig because his throat is raw from screaming and he knows that she knows and Sigyn can feel the waves of choked anger radiating off of him. She must tread carefully, now that she has gained this much ground. She cannot make the mistake that Thor made, of blundering forward in search of the idyllic little brother that only existed, truly, in the thunder god’s mind. 

Spilled water runs down his chest, settling in cracks and valleys that were not there when Sigyn left, three years ago. 

It would be so easy, she realizes with crystal clarity in that moment, to toss away the pieces of Loki that are so misshapen and twisted, bury them in the darkness never to return. To drag the few whole parts of him back from the dark and sew him back together as best she can. She suspects that she might be able to do it, if she pushes hard enough. Right now. 

It would be such an injustice. 

“The Allfather told me many things,” she speaks at last. “Of Jotunheim and Midgard. Of the Chitauri. Of the crimes you committed, in the name of kingship, then the name of betrayal.”

She holds up a hand as he opens his mouth to speak and miraculously, he shuts it. 

“What I never heard, in the tellings of your atrocities, was when you ceased to be Loki. I still see Loki before me now.”

“So you agree that this beast before you has always existed. How insightful of you, Sigyn, to see it before any other.”

There is grudging admiration in his biting tone. Sigyn resists the urge to roll her eyes. 

“I saw…I see no such beast.”

Loki raises an incredulous eyebrow. His body seems to deflate as he realizes that Sigyn will not rise to the bait of another good shouting match. Sigyn notes this with satisfaction as she chooses her next words with care. 

“I see….Loki Silvertongue. Your hatred is too great stem from anyone less than a prince of Asgard who loved his brother and his family so passionately that their betrayal drove him to madness. No monster, no indifferent beast can possibly accomplish what you have, nor be so cut to the bone by the loss of what you love.

“No, Loki Silvertongue stands before me, with a pitiable excuse intended to drive me away. We both know that I do not shirk my duties. Stop insulting my intelligence with your ravings of monstrosity. Loki is Loki; do not cheat yourself by claiming some bond of blood ties your mind to the instincts of a monster.”

Sigyn retreats, then, turning away to take a long drink of water and summon the light back into the lantern. The cell is cast into shadow, allowing both occupants to gather the remains of their respective masks and lodge them into place. 

Loki lets out a heavy breath of air, dissipating the tense silence. 

“You are a pig-headed fool,” he grumbles. “No argument with such sentimentality as its cornerstone can hope to hold up to logic.” 

And yet, Loki does not elaborate how exactly her argument would fail. Sigyn has the good sense not to point this out. She has always been a graceful winner. 

Granted, the most she has won is Loki’s attention. Still, at least it isn’t a horde of fire demons on Muspelheim. 

She notes, wryly, that the last twenty minutes have exhausted her nearly as much as a battle, anyway. From the way Loki’s head rests against the wall, the feeling is mutual. 

Sigyn watches the trickster over the dim lantern light. Loki’s mouth is tight and he avoids her eyes. Sigyn waits patiently. At last he mutters, 

“Chess.”

“What?”

“Chess,” he repeats, “Tell Thor I want a chessboard. He will understand.” He pauses. “Ask him to get you an introductory tome on Chess as well.” 

Sigyn’s brows lift, but she does not ask. There will be plenty of time for questions next week. 

They share a glance as Sigyn latches the muzzle back into place, scraping his hair out of the way and fastening it-perhaps more loosely than before. She tucks errant black locks behind his ears and mops the sweat from his face with her tunic sleeve. Above and beyond the duties of a guard, but Sigyn suspects that this is the outcome that Odin intended when he ordered a friend of his son to guard his imprisonment. 

Sigyn cannot decide if the Allfather’s decision is wise or cruel, for both of them. 

 

*****************

 

The stone door latches back into place behind her with a solid boom and she allows all of the tension to leave her body. Sigyn sinks to her knees, closing her eyes against the torchlight in the dungeon corridor that is suddenly too bright after the cell. She schools her breath, sucking in the musty air, holds it in and releases it until she feels as if she could melt into the floor. 

A large hand appears in her line of vision. 

“Lady Sigyn?” 

She lets Thor pull her to her feet, offers him a wan smile. 

“Thank you, my lord.” 

Thor’s blue gaze is intense. “Has my brother harmed you?”

Sigyn shakes her head. Thor’s eyes remain on her, searching, sending a chill down to her stomach. 

“My lord?” 

The thunder god finally looks away, examines his boots in a rare show of uncertainty.

“Did Loki….has my brother….did he say anything to you?”

Sigyn gapes up at him. “Has he not spoken to you?”

The muscle twitching in his jaw gives Sigyn her answer. Damn it to Hel. She should not have given it away so quickly that Loki had spoken to her. 

Sigyn turns and begins the long walk up to the ground floor of the palace, the elder prince of Asgard keeping pace and perfecting the art of looming. 

“Loki asked for something called a chessboard, and an introductory book on Chess. He said that you would understand.” 

Thor beams down at her and a bleak, shuddering feeling of impending doom descends on her shoulders. 

“I know of what he speaks. Dr. Selvig plays that game often, though I do not enjoy playing against him. He always wins.” 

Sigyn calculates the odds that Loki orchestrated Thor’s reaction to Sigyn’s request, knowing that the thunder god would dog her steps with hopeful looks and questions for the next sennight because she had garnered some kind of reaction from his younger brother. Thor claps a mighty hand on her shoulder, nearly toppling her and she decides that Loki is indeed a shrewd bastard and she would have to fight not to kill him next week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Part Deux: Some clarifications- I read the story of Loki and Sigyn and thought it was a pretty misogynistic mashup of a marriage, not to mention Sigyn's brilliant decision to stick with the guy that just murdered her betrothed because of the fine print. Don't get me started on Marvel's take on the whole debacle. 
> 
> So. Needless to say I didn't like those versions, decided 'to hell with it' and wrote Sigyn the way I'd imagine someone who has to interact with the god of mischief on a regular basis might act: as a professional detector/deflector of B.S. I tried to stay loyal (haha, I made a pun) to Sigyn's own title as the goddess of loyalty when reconstructing her character, however. I thought it wouldn't be much fun if I didn't have something canonical with which to play, and I hope you enjoy the result. Even if you didn't, leave me a review and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing except for 20% of the snark and Sigyn’s scar. The other 80% belongs to Loki, as always.

The Midgardian game proves to be….intriguing. Sigyn devours the “Chess for Dummies” manual and sends Thor back to Midgard twice to retrieve more texts before the week is out. She sets up the board in her chambers, arranging the pieces in different formations of defense and attack, committing several strategies from the books to memory. Sigyn decides that she should show this game to Theoric to teach to the Red Hawks. It is rife with lessons on battle stratagem. 

Then Sigyn remembers that Thor talks to Loki and word of the Red Hawks practicing Loki’s game might rest ill on the younger prince’s ears. 

She resolves to keep Chess to herself until after she has actually played against Loki. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

Thor accompanies Sigyn on the long descent to the cells on her second visit. The chessboard rattles under her arm and Sigyn catches Thor stealing meaningful glances at the Midgardian game. 

“My lord-“

“You may call me Thor, Sigyn.”

“…Thor. How often to you speak with Loki?”

Thor’s brows knit at the blunt question. Sigyn waits him out. 

“I see my brother every day,” The thunder god admits at last. Sigyn lets out a breath through her nose. 

“Perhaps it would be…beneficial if you did not visit Loki so often.” Before Thor could protest or simply flatten her with Mjolnir for the audacious suggestion, she threw in, “For Loki’s sake, of course. With everything that has come to pass…it must be distressing for both of you, with wounds so fresh.”

A storm blew across Thor’s face as the elder prince struggled to find fault with her argument. Sigyn tensed, fingers twitching instinctively for the sword that was not at her hip, and then prayed that Thor hadn’t noticed the subtle movement. 

“You ask a great deal from me, Sigyn,” Thor rumbled, “Loki’s mind has fallen to darkness. He continues to fall; I fear that he will soon be beyond my grasp. How can I leave my brother when his need for me is greatest?” 

“In any of your visits, has Loki spoken to you?” Sigyn says quietly. Thor’s eyes darken and she hears leather creak as his grip on Mjolnir tightens. 

“No,” he replies at last, confirming Sigyn’s guess.

“Loki will not be bullied or persuaded to see reason,” she continues with the blunt honesty, hoping that it will make Thor understand or at least cooperate, “The decision will be his own, no matter what anyone says or does to him, in the end. Has this not always been so?” 

“You would know better than I,” Thor says darkly, earning a sharp sideways look from Sigyn. When he catches her incredulous stare, Thor explains, “Until Loki attacked me, I would never have fathomed the depths of his pain and anger. I did not…I did not see what he was becoming.”

‘And I would have?’ Sigyn barely stops from blurting. This agreement between Thor and Odin that Sigyn can help Loki where his own father and brother cannot…to say Sigyn thinks their reasoning bordering on insanity would be an understatement. 

“No one did,” Sigyn replies firmly and if it is to reassure Thor or herself she refuses to consider. “Loki is…was a colleague of mine and though we spent years studying together I am not foolish enough to claim to know him, especially if you do not, Thor.”

Muscles jump in Thor’s jaw, but he does not argue further. He does, however, take Sigyn’s shoulder in a grip just shy of painful, forcing her to meet his eyes. 

“You must do what you can.” It is a royal command, laced with quiet desperation. 

Sigyn can only nod and hope he can’t feel her tremble. 

At the last checkpoint he takes his leave and Sigyn finishes the journey to the patch of wall-that-isn’t-a-wall alone. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

Loki wins the first three games, spends twenty minutes verbally tearing apart all of her attempted strategies, asks for water and goes silent for the rest of the visit. 

At least until Sigyn is replacing the muzzle. Then he reminds her to bring the board with her next week. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

It is not precisely a routine in the sense that Sigyn’s visits were normal, because that would indicate regularity. It is closer to the routine that one would follow across a dance floor….or an open plain packed with hidden explosives. Sigyn chooses to call it her duty in her mind, and she guesses Loki calls it by another, more vulgar name in his. 

For even though Sigyn always arrives on the same day, at the same hour (which means little to Loki), even though she removes the muzzle, offers him a drink and magically casts the cell into dim light in the same order she cannot call it something so mundane or normal as routine. Some weeks, the physical cycle is broken by a cutting word out of Loki’s mouth the moment she removes the muzzle. Others, silence reigns for the hour or so she spends in the semi-darkness until she kneels in front of him to replace the gag and Loki will mutter “knight to E6” and Sigyn will have to turn around and re-illuminate the cell and move his damn chess piece before she leaves. 

Even the chess games are irregular, though they might be the closest things to routine that they manage. Sigyn enjoys the game despite herself, in part because of her cunning but utterly chaotic opponent. They might play multiple games in one visit, or only exchange one move each. Loki seems to sense when Sigyn is eager to continue a game. When he does, he deliberately refuses to move until her next visit, forcing Sigyn to clench her jaw shut lest she give the true magnitude of her impatience away. 

To be fair-if anything resembling fairness can be applied to such a circumstance-Sigyn returns the favor with more relish than is strictly appropriate. Loki usually has a few choice words on the weeks that she does this but Sigyn’s intuition-the same instinctual inner voice that guides her blade into the heart of enemies in battle-whispers to her that the younger prince would truly rage if she gave any indication that she had pity for him. Which makes sound logical sense; otherwise Thor would have softened Loki’s heart long ago with brotherly concern and sympathy. 

The elder brother in question lies in wait for Sigyn to emerge from the dungeons without fail, though he rarely questions her about Loki. Instead the thunderer simply walks beside her for a spell, slowly peeling the skin off the side of Sigyn’s face with that piercing, soulful look of his and agitating her further. By the time she has reached her private chambers her jaw aches, half-moons are pressed into her palms from her nails and the tiny beast that has taken up residence in her stomach is threatening to claw its way out to explore the rest of her inner organs. 

Hel, she misses Muspelheim. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Rook to F6.”

“I can see where you have moved perfectly; there is no need to narrate.”

“Force of habit.”

“I am painfully aware. Knight to F6.” 

“Damn it.” 

Loki steals a glance up at her from under his lashes, decides that Sigyn’s curse was as good a cue as any to ask his question. Sigyn remains oblivious, glaring down at the chessboard as if she could scry the mysteries of the universe from the little wooden pieces. Despite her focused appearance, her concentration is sorely lacking; Loki can see checkmate in three moves from five different directions. 

“Why is your hair unbound?”

That gets Sigyn’s attention. Her head snaps up in surprise. 

“What?”

Loki raises a brow and waits. Sigyn replaces the pawn she had been fingering, her other hand twitching upward before it stills in her lap. She carefully wipes the lines between her brows away, schooling her restless body into the visage of calm. Loki supposes the act might be impressive he hadn’t watched the whole transformation from three feet away and wasn’t the god of lies. As it is he allows an amused smirk to cross his face and Sigyn breaks the stoicism to shoot him a scowl. 

“Why do you deem my hairstyle noteworthy at all?” She retorts. Loki’s shoulders lift, making the chains rattle softly. Loki notes distantly that her eye no longer twitches when she hears the metal scraping against the wall of the cell. 

“Sigyn,” Loki scoffs, “Did you truly expect to make so drastic a change to your appearance from all of your other…visits…and have it pass unnoticed? Do you think me that mad?”

He can feel the mental eye-roll she sends his way.

“You are not mad, Loki.”

Loki cackles. 

“That remains a point of contention.”

“Fine. You are not mad at the moment. If you ever were.” 

“That was a valiant try to divert me. Now to return to my original inquiry: the locks that currently frame your face.” 

To her credit, Sigyn maintains the steely façade even as she grinds out,

“I felt like it.” 

“…you felt like it.”

“Yes.” 

Oh, how delightful, Loki purrs inwardly. Something has disturbed his prison guard to the point of emotional vulnerability and as if that isn’t the most entertaining occurrence since he was strung up in this hole in the ground, she is trying to withhold information despite her blatant unease from the god of lies. 

It is a testament to Sigyn’s force of will that she hasn’t tripped up so badly before now, Loki grudgingly acknowledges, because if he was diving on deviances this minute he knows he is well and truly starved for psychological manipulation. 

The fact that Thor no longer visits contributes to the famine. He suspects Sigyn is behind the thunder god’s mysterious disappearance from his cell. 

He is well and truly starved, period. 

Just to watch her squirm, Loki chooses that awkward pause to ask for water. If Sigyn tilts the waterskin a little too high and most of his mouthful ends up dribbling down his chest, neither comment. 

Sigyn turns away Loki jerks backward, head cracking against the wall as the scent of sunlight and thyme assault his nose, the achingly familiar scent that drags him up to the majestic city above where it is bright and golden like Thor, where he is a child running wild through his father’s halls, through his mother’s garden that is so plentiful with thyme, the envy of every herbalist in Asgard. 

He hears Sigyn’s voice, pulling him back out of the sensory onslaught that threatens to break him after so long with nothing but stale air and a wall of blackness around him. He allows himself one deep, shaky breath to expel every memory pressing against his skull, descend into familiar numbness. Then he opens his eyes, the picture of nonchalance. 

“You’re bleeding.” Sigyn states bluntly. She is tense, watching him closely from a safe distance, all of her own self-consciousness forgotten. 

“I am always bleeding,” Loki drawls, twisting his oozing wrists for emphasis. Sigyn doesn’t take her eyes from his, though. 

“No, your head…” She moves toward him and it takes every ounce of Loki’s acting skill not to flinch. She pauses before touching him, waiting for his acquiescence. When he doesn’t move, she ghosts tentative fingers through his hair until she finds the already-forming lump. 

The rest of the contents of the waterskin are used to clean it. Dimly, Loki realizes that the scent had come from Sigyn’s unbound locks and that she had tied it back hastily before she came near him again. 

He had lost control of the situation. Because of bath oils. Damn. 

Loki is aware of Sigyn’s left ear in his line of vision as she works. He breathes through his mouth to avoid any more uncomfortable flashbacks, surreptitiously flexes his fingers, forcing the chain into his wrists, allowing the additional pain to ground him. 

As Sigyn pulls away he risks meeting her glance but his eyes are drawn down to the jagged scar across her cheek, puckered skin glinting slightly in the dim light of the cell. 

Ah. Suddenly the source of her earlier irritability becomes apparent and Loki regains the upper hand. 

He lets his relief manifest in an amused chuckle, raising Sigyn’s hackles on reflex. She backs away, folds herself neatly in front of the chessboard in front of him. Loki tilts his head, regards her with a calculating look. 

“I have wondered,” he begins casually, “how you came upon that lovely mark on your cheek.” 

Sigyn leans forward, rests her elbows on her knees. Her eyes are dull-not with defeat, Loki decides-but with some kind of resignation. Like she had been expecting the question. Which makes sense, of course. The scar is curious not simply because of its prominence on her otherwise unmarred features but because Sigyn allows it to exist at all. Any such marks from battle could be easily healed with magic with which Sigyn is intimately acquainted; yet there it remains, a note of glaring discord for all to see. No, Loki knows that she knows he would ask. The Trickster has merely been waiting for the perfect moment to strike. From the telltale signs of duress written on the warrior, he knows he had chosen well. 

“In battle, of course,” Sigyn replies, tone as neutral as she can manage. Before Loki can goad her into it, she continues, “In Muspelheim. We had located the fire demon’s nest and a dozen of us were sent to recover the runestone while the rest of the company distracted it. I cloaked us as we crept into its lair, but the strain…the Jotnar found us as we were retreating. Only three of us returned.” 

Loki makes a show of shifting in his bonds to avoid speaking, letting the mire of guilt slowly drag her under. He watches her fingers twitch idly, most likely in search of a weapon, or seeking to run themselves over the scar. 

It makes perfect sense, especially to one known for her loyalty. Her failure to maintain the spell had cost the lives of her companions. But Loki can sense more: an undercurrent like tendrils of magic that circles in the cramped cell. It emanates from Sigyn in a way that he recognizes from their years in the conservatory. It is the aura she gives off in waves-sometimes waves of literal magic-when she has completely failed to execute a spell, or has come straight from the training arena with a fresh bruise or a limp. Depending on his mood on those particular days, Loki would in turn add verbal salt to her wounds with a well-placed jab or offer a word or two of comfort. 

As Sigyn’s training had progressed, Loki had found it increasingly prudent not to aggravate her further when she prowled around the conservatory in a mood, throwing spells together with sharp, violent twists of her hand.

Today, however…what had he to lose? 

“Has it begun to chafe your vanity, Sigyn? Do you regret your decision to wear your mark of disgrace? It seems you have committed to it: a millennia of imperfection.” 

He does not expect the huff of laughter that escapes her. 

“You are far from the mark, Loki. Care to try again?” 

And didn’t that just rankle like the cuffs around his wrists. His lip curls in disdain, earning another amused chuckle from his guard. Loki presses, 

“I hate to disagree, but I would say that today you are ashamed of that blemish.”

“Because I chose not to bind my hair?” Sigyn lifts an incredulous brow. “Perhaps I merely forgot, or my tie broke just moments from entering your cell.”

Loki settles back against the wall, carefully avoiding resting the injured part of his head on the stone. 

“Oh, no, you hid your face from prying eyes today. I wonder, what catastrophic event would affect Sigyn of the Red Hawks so that she conceals an open display of loyalty to her fallen comrades-in-arms?”

Loki can hear her teeth grinding and winces even as he silently celebrates his little victory. 

Sigyn would cut out her own tongue before she tells Loki about the confrontation with Theoric in the training arena, but she knows that if she wants to keep Loki’s attention, if she wants to fulfill that unspoken command of the Allfather’s to keep his son’s mind present in some small way instead of retreating completely into his rage and betrayal she must disclose a little truth. 

It is a brutal alchemy, this exchange of pieces of her self for Loki’s sanity. 

“Perhaps it has been untactfully rumored,” Sigyn speaks quietly, lifting her eyes to the ceiling shrouded in shadow, “that it is prudent for the captain of the Red Hawks to found a family, now that his company is returned safely to Asgard with extended leave. Perhaps the rumor mongers think to help a poor disfigured warrior by suggesting she make herself…available to certain advances.” 

The irony is not lost on Loki. In fact, it garners a fit of laughter that erupts from his chest, dances along the line of hysterical. His wounded skull protests as it shakes against the wall with the force of his laughter. 

“How does it feel, Sigyn,” he rasps when he has breath, “to escape a molten furnace full of monsters only to fall to the clutches of noble Asgardian tradition? Can you feel the golden halls shrinking around you? And not because of your great beauty, but the lack thereof. Theoric will have you not despite your glaring blemish, but because of it.” 

Trust Loki Silvertongue to illustrate her dilemma in such sharp detail. 

She takes comfort in the fact that this is by far the least of her worries, but it doesn’t stop the quiet panic pooling in the corner of her mind from dissipating. It also doesn’t stop her from mentally kicking herself for walking down to this cell in a vulnerable state, losing control and figuratively handing Loki a sword already pointed at a gap in her armor. 

Maybe, that optimistic naïveté that she tries so hard to stamp out whispers, she was offering Loki a chance to prove himself. 

If this is the case, Sigyn thinks, she deserves the verbal attack for being so foolish. 

“I expect it feels much like this,” Sigyn retorts, gesturing about the cell. Loki’s eyes narrow a fraction. 

“Do not deceive yourself. What is a prison of the body compared to a shackled mind? Your spirit will wither and break in the brilliance of Asgard long before mine, though I will never see the light of day.” He hisses, “Your infamous loyalty will be your own undoing.”

It’s as if Loki is peeling her skin away to expose the raw nerves to the damp air. Every dark fear is laid bare like the chessboard between them. Loki’s eyes glint in the lantern light; he knows he has found weakness and he tears open the wound as viciously as a wolf into a kill. If he breaks her down with more ferocity than is strictly necessary or even rational he does not acknowledge it. He is not overcompensating for his earlier lapse, certainly. 

Sigyn is weary, he can see it in the defensive hunch of her shoulders, the way she doesn’t check her fingers when they move to brush her scar. His point made, he simply watches, basking in the meager glow of a won argument and allows Sigyn to feel a fraction of the anguish, for once. Let his self-righteous prison guard leap to her death off her pedestal, join the rest of the broken creatures crawling in the dirt. 

And because Fate is cruel and wholly unfair Sigyn finds one of the few reactions that he is certain she knows will throw him. She smiles. 

Damn it straight to Hel and back. 

“And what of it, Loki?” Sigyn inquires, fatigue still beneath the words but dampened, controlled. “Such an arrangement would not hinder my duty to the Allfather.” She ignores his tiny flinch. “I will remain your guard, regardless of any…personal changes.”

Sigyn takes the pawn between her fingers again. Her eyes follow its movement, drawing Loki’s gaze as well. 

“That being said, why is this of any concern to you? Whether I create a scandal or adhere to tradition, my duty is binding. What is your purpose, Loki?” 

The Trickster keeps his eyes firmly on the pawn even after Sigyn moves it across the board and places it in such a position that there is no way that Loki cannot achieve checkmate in his next move. At least his guard’s attention is still faltering. It is a small comfort in light of the Bildschnipe in the room to which Sigyn has just pointed. 

Because Loki has no answer for her. 

The obvious excuse (and lie) is that he is attempting to drive her into enough of a rage that she will simply refuse to return. Though he might wish for such an outcome, Loki is no fool. He trusts the shrewdness of the Allfather in choosing Sigyn; if Odin has called her to guard him then she will not be deterred. Her reputation alone is enough proof of that without the Allfather’s judgment. 

(And he does know her, though the years spent in magical study together seem to be irrelevant to Sigyn now. Loki is secretly relieved.) 

And yet Loki chooses this motivation for his verbal attacks because anything else he can think of resembles madness, or the petulant rage of a stubborn child. 

If nothing else, he can attempt to twist a few knots in Sigyn’s mind, break the guard and therefore the monotony of his imprisonment. 

“Rook to C8. Checkmate.” 

Sigyn moves the piece, topples her king with a flick of her finger. The cell fills with muffled clinks of wood as she replaces the board. 

Sigyn is clever, Loki decides: a true strategist at heart. She took quite the emotional lashing and still managed to keep the presence of mind to find an opening, deflecting his attack back to his own twisted predicament. He will be hung, drawn and quartered before he admits that this entire exchange has actually brought him some enjoyment. 

“My purpose,” Loki echoes belatedly. Sigyn looks up, meets his eyes that burn with a fae glow in the lantern light even without his magic coursing through him. He takes in the lines between her dark brows, her body taught like a strung bow. Her fingers curl reflexively, as if she has forgotten to check her nervous habit. “My purpose has been achieved.” 

It is Sigyn’s turn to stare, baffled, at Loki. The god of mischief grins, and the jagged edges of his smile are softened with genuine amusement. 

It feels good to win. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

 

For the first time since the visits began, Sigyn breaks with her fragile routine. Before the cell door opens to release her she extinguishes the lantern, plunging the cell into pitch. For a moment Sigyn loses her sense of gravity and nearly staggers. She closes her eyes, which doesn’t change the dark but gives her body the illusion of equilibrium. 

She twists her wrist and a small flame appears in her hand. Loki’s manacles thrum a little, reaching for the source of magic with murderous intent. 

She ignores the sinister pull and kneels in front of the Trickster. In the sparse light from her palm his face is in shadow; only his eyes that glitter like cut jewels (but flow, run rivers of emotion when left unchecked) are fully visible to her. 

She hopes Loki is as disconcerted as she. 

Slowly she reaches behind him, sifts through lank hair until she finds the lump and before Loki can protest she lets a healing spell seep into his skin. 

It takes before the manacles can negate the magic. Loki grunts in surprise through the muzzle. Sigyn is careful to give only a little; she does not know what it feels to be separated from one’s own magic, one’s pure energy, but she imagines a sudden influx of the stuff might cleave Loki’s mind in two in a way years in the lightless cell never could. 

Whether her action is a call for truce or a warning, Sigyn is not sure. Loki holds his neutrality to him like the shield it is and she cannot read him. 

Loki inclines his head a fraction, a wordless thanks. It seems his goal to confound me today, Sigyn thinks as she lets the flame dissipate, hiding her surprise at the prince’s gesture. 

It is the first visit in which Sigyn knows with certainty she has been defeated, but for the life of her she cannot put to words, even in her mind, what exactly she has lost, what Loki has won. In the pitch of the cell the posturing and wary circling seems endless and without purpose, and when the door opens at last, spilling light into her face, Sigyn cannot leave quickly enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Deux: As always, let me know what you think. Any constructive criticism is welcomed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, except maybe Theoric’s beard. All the diabolical planning is property of Loki. Mjolnir belongs to Thor. That covers everything, right?

At first it is easy-eerily so-to sink into the gloom. He buries all thought-even the white -hot rage that feeds him-in steel coffins and for a while he simply exists, barely conscious, barely sentient, the darkness and the pain the only things that ever touch him. 

 

Then Thor begins to visit, and Sigyn and the unending blackness is shattered as the great door to his cell scrapes inward and his world coalesces back into the walls of the cell. The endless void that might have been the edge of the universe is destroyed and rebuilt into his cage with the simple re-introduction of light. 

 

It forces his mind back into his aching body. The dim torchlight burns-his eyes, his skin, everywhere it touches-and Thor’s voice rings in his ears, cacophonic, excruciating even when he whispers. The first visit Loki does not speak to Thor because he cannot, can barely make sense of Thor’s words as they batter against his skull. After that, after Loki is once again alone and blind and deaf he casts about and deciphers some familiar phrases like ‘brother’, ‘betrayed’, ‘misses’ out of the jumble of remembered noise from the Thunderer.

 

Though he tries his best to forget, to bury the interruption beside the rest of his conscious thought, the monotony has been broken. Loki feels anew the rivulets of blood that flow down his arms, every cut and bruise and torn muscle that has yet to heal. 

 

He remembers what it is to hate. 

 

The loss of his magic is a hole in his chest and head. This sensation he resolutely ignores. It would be true madness to linger on the large chunk of him that had disappeared courtesy of the manacles that suck his arcane energy away like greedy desert sand does drops of water. 

 

To stave off the renewed panic, Loki forces his body to move. He curls his legs under him and struggles to his feet. Blood rushes from his head and his knees give like brittle twigs. 

 

When he comes to, his left leg is pinned underneath him, completely numb. 

 

For minutes? Hours? Loki tries again and again to stand until he manages to plant shaky legs firmly beneath him without blacking out. 

 

When next Thor comes, Loki stands tall against the stone at his back, lets his hatred burn to the surface and seals his lips together, determined never to speak to his once-brother again if for nothing else than Thor’s wounded looks as he talks himself hoarse in the dark of the cell. Loki decides that he could survive on Thor’s despair, if his solitude must be encroached upon. 

 

Loki had adapted-for the most part- to Thor’s regular interruptions when Sigyn appears, magic energy coming off her in waves that nearly drown him. As she approaches, the tide of familiar power ebbs, the manacles reach eagerly to dampen the influx, and Loki’s skull no longer threatens to burst wide open like a dying star. 

 

It still takes a while to find steady ballast in the midst of the magical onslaught and his shackles serve him again. He twists wrists attached to hands he can barely feel, allows the metal to cut a little deeper, drawing his attention away from the power just out of his reach. 

 

Damaging, but effective. 

 

Then Sigyn touches him, not simply to fasten the muzzle in place but to ease some of his discomfort, wipes his brow and pushes raven hair from his face and the contrast between self-inflicted pain and a cool palm on his brow threatens to crack him in two. Pain was so long his intimate companion that Loki finds he cannot handle anything that deviates, that adds to his already raw, underexposed senses. Fighting the urge to cry out, Loki stills the movements of his wrists and focuses completely on Sigyn’s hands and finds his footing once more. 

 

After that first visit, Loki is careful not to contrast the two sensations again, stills his arms when Sigyn tilts his chin to help him drink then digs into the manacles when she moves away. He is meticulous, schooling his features into veiled distain or indifference lest his guard realize just how susceptible he has become to any sensory input. Norns know what Sigyn could do to him if she discovers the weakness. 

 

Luckily, Sigyn is not Thor, who communicates more often in touch-violent or otherwise- and Loki is at an advantage with words.

 

And if Sigyn works Loki into a corner in an argument or two it is because he is trapped in a hole in the ground and bereft of practice. 

 

The visits do keep him occupied if nothing else, and provide an avenue for manipulation and escape if only he is patient. Loki does not completely understand the Sigyn with the scar on her cheek, not like he knew Sigyn of the conservatory, and it will take time to pick her apart, find that perfect weakness in her psyche that will prove the key to his freedom. 

 

Loki is making progress simply by waiting her out; she’d even chanced using her magic to heal him. Naturally, it was that gesture that shot his plans to hell. 

 

It was a rash, desperate move to counteract his victory in some argument or another or maybe to try to throw him off balance; Loki cannot even remember why Sigyn healed the knot on his skull. 

 

It was a fleeting instant-like a shallow gasp of air before plunging back into the water to drown-but it gave Loki what he needed. 

 

Not that he is happy about it. 

 

He had had seconds before Sigyn pressed her fingers to his wound to decipher what she was about to do, choose the spell and use it all before Sigyn pulled her hand-and her magic-back out of his reach. 

 

Loki’s scrying was weak, muffled by the manacles sucking greedily at his guard’s magic but their presence was unmistakable. The unique current of energy that united their army was near, and approaching fast. 

 

For about six minutes, Loki contemplates allowing the Chitauri to take him. 

 

His torment will become physical, of course, and he may lose the last vestiges of his sanity before they take his life (if they take his life and isn’t that a sinister thought), but he would not be on Asgard. 

 

For the next three minutes he mentally kicks himself for the previous six minutes of sheer desperation. 

 

Loki is the god of lies, damnit, and he will slither out of this, chains or no chains. 

 

Unfortunately the only tools he currently possesses are his wit, his tongue, and Sigyn. 

 

Loki groans and lets his head hit the wall with a hollow thud. He has to congratulate her for keeping Thor away from him before he curses the day she was born for considering all of Loki’s possible avenues for escape. It would all be so much easier with Thor. 

 

Every option, every scenario plays out in his head and he sifts through the myriad of choices, like he would while examining the chessboard. He casts around with new purpose for any significant memories of Sigyn, or any sign of a particular character quirk or weakness to exploit. The scar is obviously a sore point but her defenses are up now, after their last bout. 

 

Loki braces himself and casts about for useful facts. 

 

* * *

 

“Sigyn?” Theoric’s sword stills as he turns to cast her a questioning look. “Back for another bout so soon?” 

Sigyn smiles grimly and takes a staff from the rack, strides across the wide expanse of the training arena to stand nearer her captain. 

“Sadly, yes. I fear after so long in Muspelheim I have forgotten how to go long without fighting.” 

It is a flimsy lie, but Sigyn would rather not mention the frustrating visit with Loki. Her fingers still tingle from the manacles’ efforts to clutch at her spell, and she suppresses a shudder. 

Theoric laughs and swings his practice blade in a wide arc, shaking his muscles loose. 

“Such is the curse of a victorious campaign; we don’t know what to do with ourselves afterwards.” 

They practice basic forms in comfortable silence, then when Sigyn finds her energy remains undiminished she smacks Theoric lightly with the butt of her staff. They square off, each working to knock the other down to win the bout. Sigyn whirls the staff high then low, forcing Theoric off-balance but he leaps over the sweep, under her guard and sends an elbow into her ribs. 

Sigyn lands with an “oof” on her back but locks her arms and legs around Theoric seeking a chokehold until she notices his shoulders are shaking with laughter. Sigyn pushes him off her, trying for offense but unable to stop a smile from spreading. 

They lay in the arena sand, laughing like children and Sigyn almost forgets the ball of tension that has taken residence in her gut of late. 

Theoric finally rolls to his feet, shaking the sand from his clothes. Sigyn mimics him, knocking her staff against her boots to free them of dust. Theoric’s dark beard now glitters with granules of sand, and Sigyn almost reaches to brush them away. Almost. 

Sigyn inwardly blanches at the awkward turn of her thoughts. Theoric smiles wide and offers her an exaggerated bow. 

“My lady, a most invigorating bout.” 

Sigyn rolls her eyes, silently thanking her captain for his sense of humor and distinct lack of telepathy. 

“Yes, until you decided to giggle your way out of it.”

Theoric shrugs theatrically as they begin the walk back to their respective quarters. 

“Well, it worked, did it not?” 

A year ago, Sigyn would have shoved him playfully. A day ago, she would have smiled, but Loki’s mocking prophecy would not stop echoing in her head. Walking next to her captain now, in the brilliant sunlight of Asgard, the threat of a forced…marriage… seems far-fetched at best. But it does not banish the memory of Theoric’s fumbling confession in the cave that had become the company’s refuge on Muspelheim or her frantic pleas for him to just ‘shut up, be silent!’ as she pressed both hands into the gaping hole in his abdomen, summoning every healing spell in her memory and pouring magic into the would-be fatal wound. 

“Just this once,” Sigyn finds the presence of mind to reply. Theoric, seemingly satisfied, bids her farewell with a soft quirk of the lips as he turns down a narrow street, heading to the soldier’s quarters. 

‘Where I should be living’ Sigyn thinks dourly. 

Instead she continues up the main road to the palace. The weight of her duty settles once again on her shoulders like some enormous nesting bird made of lead; she forces herself to think instead on what she will eat tonight, if Sif and the Warriors Three might be there, if they will have a story or two to tell from the hunt today, anything to keep her focus aboveground and bathed in the radiance of the sun and stars. 

 

* * *

 

The feasting hall is packed when Sigyn arrives weary from her visit with Loki and the following hours in the training arena. Before she helps herself to a heaping plate of boar and apples, she reaches out with a simple scry, checking the seams of the door to the cell, the alertness of the guards posted just outside. The interior of the cell is a vacuum, a blank space in the vision of her magic but that is expected and a sign that Loki is still bound by his chains. 

Satisfied for the moment, she has barely taken a bite before Thor and his companions surround her in a noisy clatter of armor, plates and mugs of ale. 

She greets them with polite interest, too tired to offer much else but relieved for the company.

“You were not on the hunt today, Sigyn. We missed your company,” Sif says around a swig of mead.

“Yes, the hunting party was poorer without your radiant beauty,” Fandral chimes in. Sigyn bites back the sharp retort on her tongue. She is not in the mood for Fandral’s flirtations, habitual and meaningless though they are. 

“I would have only slowed you down today,” Sigyn replies. Before anyone can ask, she inquires about the hunt, spurring Thor, Fandral and Volstagg into a vigorous debate about who spotted the bilgesnipe first and how large the tusks were and how many trees it destroyed in its mad dash through the nearby forest before the warriors stopped its tirade. 

Sigyn is drawn into the tale despite her solemn mood, laughing aloud when Volstagg reveals that Hogun had been thrown in the air by the beast’s antlers and had shrieked-shrieked! - as he tumbled down to land in a particularly overgrown patch of thorn bushes. 

“It was a battle cry,” Hogun continues to insist. 

“Then my wife emits a cry far more fearsome than yours, my friend,” Volstagg laughs. 

“Battle cries or shrieks for mercy aside,” Sif interrupts, “my spear felled the great beast.” 

“I am quite certain I plunged my blade into its hide first,” Fandral counters. 

“Could it have been done simultaneously?” Sigyn wonders aloud, “To whom are the antlers gifted if more than one warrior strikes first?” 

Sif and Fandral eye each other suspiciously. 

“Perhaps….one to each?” Thor offers. 

“And if there are more than two warriors?” Sigyn presses, fighting to hide her amusement with a swig of mead as the table falls quiet for half a minute before erupting into a heated debate, complete with the odd flying plate or boar’s leg to emphasize a point. 

It isn’t until her mood is nearly restored that Thor shoots her the look over the rim of his mug and her heart plummets once again to her stomach. 

“My brother once posed a similar question that had us bickering for a week, do you remember?” 

To the credit of the Warriors Three and Lady Sif, the silence only stretches tentatively into the realm of awkward before Fandral valiantly answers,

“That does indeed sound familiar. It is even more plausible if I was the winner of any such argument.” 

Volstagg and Sif jump on the opportunity to continue the debate, steer any attention away from Thor’s mention of his fallen brother, but the Thunderer remains adamant. 

“Loki must have stirred up similar fights in the conservatory,” Thor directs the not-question to Sigyn, who nearly chokes on her bread. The other warriors pause to watch, equal parts curious and uncomfortable. 

Sigyn chews slowly, casting about for some memory that would confirm or deny Thor’s accusation and end this toilsome strain of conversation. She recalls the old conservatory where young magic-users were wont to study before a particularly nasty backfire of a spell reduced the building to ruins. (No one is certain who caused the backfire and Sigyn would prefer it stayed that way.) 

“Well,” Sigyn sighs, “Eir and Loki never agreed on anything, for one…”

 

* * *

 

What she remembers most clearly is the feel of Loki’s unique energy melding with the veritable cloud of magic when their group of students gathered to practice, vibrant and mutable.

It put Eir on edge (it put everyone in the group on edge, to be fair) and she might have been more biting in her remarks about male magic users than usual because of this. 

It had mattered little to Sigyn; she was so focused on honing her skill, eager to prove her worth as a sorcerer and endlessly fascinated by this new power at her command. Loki and Eir could hiss at each other all day for all she cared, so long as her instruments weren’t jostled in the process. 

Until one day Eir and Loki had a particularly boisterous row over the execution of some ancient spell that Loki had modified and her curiosity got the better of her. 

Magical energy was difficult to describe to any who did not possess the aptitude for magic, but the closest thing Sigyn could find with which to compare it were sound and light waves. On that particular day, the waves emanating from Loki’s spell had taken on a distinctive…multi-colored hue, accompanied by the deep thrum of what might be described as a base note, a far cry from the pastel-colored tenor that the spell usually expressed. 

Eir and Loki’s voices rose in volume until Sigyn was forced to abandon her own spell-weaving or risk ripping a whole in the fabric of the air (and possibly time-space, her calculations were a little shaky).

Finally Eir stormed off, leaving a seething prince of Asgard in the corner, holding the spell in his hand like a protective mother might a threatened child. Sigyn risked venturing over to see what all the fuss was about. 

“These modifications allow for the flame to burn using its own molecules as fuel,” Loki groused, “Just because it is written in flowery script in a millennia-old book is no excuse for inefficient execution.” 

“This flame can burn eternally, then? Without need for any extraneous input of magical energy?”

“In theory.” 

“May I?” At Loki’s affirmative, Sigyn reached out a hand, calling the details of the spell to the flame’s surface where she could better read it. Her gaze darted from the book’s page to the flame and back, noting the changes Loki has made to the list of elements to gather to create flame and the altered equations. The fire danced and burned at a normal rate from what she could sense, but the energy was entirely encapsulated within the flame; Sigyn felt none of Loki’s own energy sustaining it.

“Fascinating! How did you account for the energy transfer from your magic to the flame’s molecules?”

Loki stared at her blankly for a second before pointing out the equation he’d scribbled into the margin of the page. 

“Huh. Would never have considered that. It is much more straightforward than the usual transfer of energy without actually breaking the laws of reality.”

Loki was still staring. 

“What?” Sigyn demanded, loosing patience with his reticence. The trickster blinked a few times, a mask of complete neutrality smoothing the lines between his brows. 

“Nothing. I just thought Eir’s was the reigning opinion here.” 

Sigyn snorted before she remembered she was standing next to a prince of Asgard, tried to cover it up by clearing her throat. 

“Eir’s opinions are rather antiquated, are they not? I find I discover more by learning all of her rules and then doing exactly the opposite, sometimes.” She gestured to the fire in Loki’s palm. “For example.” 

There was a brief pause, then Loki blurted, 

“You’re the one who melted all of the tables last week.” 

Sigyn felt her cheeks burn. 

“Perhaps.” 

She expected derisive laughter, but instead the trickster’s lips twitched into a small smile and his shoulders lowered slightly, releasing some tension Sigyn hadn’t noticed he had carried. Idly she wondered if Loki was always a little on edge in the conservatory, under the critical eye of Eir for daring to be male and a magic-user. 

Sigyn banished the morose thought and held out her hand. 

“Come, then. Let’s see if it will hold.” 

The flame bobbed happily in her hands, and they passed it back and forth several times to confirm that the flame was indeed feeding itself and not drawing from Loki’s energy undetected. 

“Brilliant,” Sigyn declared as Loki finally closed his fist, extinguishing the eternal fire. “Now I want to see if it can be replicated with water.” 

Loki’s brows drew together. 

“Think about it,” Sigyn insisted in answer to his unspoken question, “If we could generate a certain amount of water then engineer it to replicate itself without direct magical assistance we could provide a singular transportable water source for whole companies, whole armies.”

“What, a self-perpetuating fire isn’t enough for Asgard’s warriors?” Loki mock-huffed, but there was a glint in his eye that Sigyn knew was mirrored in her own, that half-mad spark of an idea that promised either a brilliant innovation or a decimated conservatory. 

“It is prudent to provide balance between the elements,” Sigyn replied haughtily, in a fair imitation of Eir-if she did say so herself- pulling a blank piece of parchment out from under the ancient book and beginning to copy Loki’s equation, “And who are we to deny Asgard’s armies every resource at our disposal?” 

“Selfish mages indeed, I suppose,” Loki chuckled. 

It wasn’t until the next day that Sigyn realized she had very nearly bossed a prince of Asgard into helping her with her water-spell project. When she tried to apologize to Loki he scowled and waved her off with his free hand. 

“You decided to take this moment of all moments to beg my forgiveness? I really do not care, as long as you hold that vial steady.”

“All right, all right,” Sigyn readjusted her grip on the glass full of unstable element. “Ready?” 

Loki raised his palm, over which a small blob of water floated.

“Yes.” 

Sigyn tipped the vial. 

 

* * *

 

Sigyn isn’t aware she had nearly forgotten that first collaboration with Loki until she relates the story to Thor and their friends. It’s not precisely a tale of one of Loki’s infamous pranks (and there are many, many stories she could tell of those-Astrid still has the stub of a tail, if she recalls) but it is the first one that comes to mind when she thinks of the trickster and their early study of the arcane arts. 

Perhaps it is because she uses that particular spell every time she lights a fire in her palm. 

One look at Thor and she knows she has chosen the wrong tale to tell; his deep blue eyes shimmer with hope, of all things, as if one event over a century ago is indicative of Loki’s current psycho-emotional state. 

“We did end up liquefying half of the conservatory,” Sigyn points out, as if that will help the situation. “At first we could not puzzle out how to convince the materials to re-solidify, either. Somehow Astrid received all of the blame for the accident and Loki and I all of the credit when we finally did manage to set it all to rights.”

The Warriors Three and Sif get a chuckle out of it, at least, and it seems to break the odd tension that had fallen them while Sigyn related the story. 

“I’m a little puzzled,” Fandral interjects, “I thought that magic did alter the laws of reality. Isn’t that what makes it…well, magic?” 

Rather than try to explain that bottomless pit to five non-magic users, Sigyn diverts,

“I have heard from several wise mages that reality itself is relative, prone to random changes in its makeup. Perhaps magic is only speeding up the process that would occur naturally.” 

“You are suggesting that reality itself may change at an instant?” Sif asks, incredulous. Sigyn shrugs. 

“It is merely a theory. For example, if proven correct, it is possible at any moment for Mjolnir to transform into a Midgardian rabbit simply by random chance.”

Thor goes pale and reaches reflexively for the hammer at his waist, sparking a wave of laughter and another debate about what would be the most amusing/mortifying thing into which Mjolnir could spontaneously transform. Before Thor can extricate himself from his friends’ mockery, Sigyn excuses herself and-cowardly move though it is-flees before Thor can speak of Loki again. 

 

* * *

 

Imperturbable. It is this quality-coupled with borderline manic curiosity- that grants Sigyn her knack for innovation with her magic and what keeps her nearly consistent in her visits to Loki. Were he an ordinary prisoner, or even one slightly less skilled with manipulation, her stubborn stoicism would be his undoing when the Chitauri come. 

 

Thankfully, Loki muses, he is no ordinary prisoner, and Sigyn’s strongest character traits will serve to unbind him. 

 

He hopes. 

 

It is tentative and full of holes, but it is a plan. 

 

The phantom feel of Sigyn’s fingertips on his skull offers him some assurance. She cares: it matters not how little, only that she does, even an iota. Loki can work with iotas. 

 

His once-colleague may have been made rougher, even bitter as a warrior, but he still recognizes the glint in her eyes when she is considering her next move at the chessboard; it is the look of a scholar presented with an appealingly complex problem. If Sigyn cares and still possesses her insatiable curiosity, his plan has a chance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even Loki's deviousness. He took it and ran.

Loki lets his Aesir form drop. The change slides over his skin, through his bones that are suddenly not his bones and the air is stifling, waves of heat pressing against the raised markings that now cover his body. 

He is grateful that he cannot see in the pitch of the cell. Loathing rises like bitter bile, tainting his tongue. Not Aesir, but no…no no never this. He knows his eyes glitter red and silently declares their Jotunn color 'false'. 

Loki realizes his chest is heaving as if he has forgotten how to gather breath, forces air into his lungs, searching for that corner of his mind where he had managed to hide, before Thor and Sigyn. 

Eventually the angry buzzing in his ears recedes. His arms twitch almost of their own accord, sending tiny sparks of pain as the manacles cut into his ravaged wrists. Familiar, sharp comfort. 

He will escape. He will be free. Only he must endure this form a little longer. The quiet in his mind slips a little as the thought that Sigyn will see races lightning-quick to the surface. He forces himself to count his breaths, tells the lonely howling part of him to die a quick but painful death; yes, Sigyn will see and her revulsion will only serve to prove that he is right, that Loki is monstrous and not even she can refute it. 

None of that matters, Loki self-admonishes. Focus.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Sigyn does not notice until she kneels to remove the gag and finds her eyes level with the ruby stare of a frost giant. 

She leaps back, reaches for the sword that is not at her waist, barks out, 

“Loki!” 

Sigyn’s eyes remain on the frost giant bound and chained but she listens for some sign of the trickster in the shadows of the cell until Odin’s words break through the adrenaline-fueled battle-haze. “Frost Giant” and “Loki” come together in her mind. Slowly, carefully, she approaches the figure on the ground and reaches around him to remove the gag in one swift movement. She stands and backs away before she repeats,

“Loki?” 

“Yes?”

Sigyn swears, long and vulgar. 

“What in the Nine are you plotting, Loki….I could have killed you. Has your captivity become unbearable at last, then, that you would deceive me into murdering you? It would give you great pleasure, would it not, to use me as the instrument for your demise. 'Damn you', Loki.”

The Trickster waits, the picture of nonchalant patience while Sigyn rants, deep blue lips quirked into a slight smirk. Sigyn’s reaction was every bit as amusing as he’d imagined. 

Loki allows himself a moment more of pleasure before he breathes deep and slowly unfolds his legs. He’ll need everything for this performance. 

Sigyn is still on edge, pacing in short bursts. 

“What is your aim, Loki?” Sigyn demands again, meeting his eyes briefly. “Save us our breath and frustration and simply tell me. Perhaps I would willingly help, if only to shock you.”

Loki watches her carefully; there are no signs of her nervous habits, now, only tense readiness running through the lines of her body, ready to bolt or fight at a moment’s notice. The Trickster’s transformation unsettled her, yes, but in retaliation she threw up every wall at her disposal, sensing a ploy behind Loki’s alien appearance. 

Wary but not thrown off enough, Loki knows, to be convinced with his appearance alone. He had expected this, Loki reminds himself, though it chafes no less to have to resort to his secondary (and much less enjoyable) tactic. 

“While your horror is amusing to no end, I do not show you my true face of my own will. The bindings,” he twists his wrists, “have finally sapped the last reserves of my magical energy. Without it I cannot hold my glamour, subconscious though it was.”

“Is that what I am to believe?” 

Loki shrugs, manacles clinking softly against the wall. His eyes flit from one bit of ground to another, unwilling to meet Sigyn’s no doubt piercing stare. As if the redness weighed his gaze down. 

The Trickster gives his wrist a twist, the pain sharpening his focus. Sigyn will suspect, he knows, if he cannot pull himself together and show his menace, even if this insecurity is in fact a very painful honesty. Sigyn expects Loki to lie and even the truth must be tempered with false bite. 

‘Become curious,’ Loki mentally urges Sigyn, ‘Pity me just enough.’ 

Aloud he murmurs, 

“Believe or not, it matters little.”

Sigyn can sense it then-or rather the lack of it- the manacles lay quiet for the first time since she began her visits. She steps closer and they grope weakly for her own magic reserves, but there is no longer any pull against the Trickster. He is well and truly bled dry. 

 

Blood pounds in Loki’s ears as Sigyn crouches before him, staring at his eyes with an intensity he cannot fully dismiss as fear or horror. Loki idly wonders if he is able to perspire in his Jotunn form. 

Loki is chained half-clothed to a wall and he has not felt so exposed as he does in this moment. 

He resolutely ignores how easily the panic rises to the surface. For now, it serves his purpose. 

Sigyn lifts a hand and a brow in silent question. Loki swallows and nods. For a split moment he thinks he has played his nervousness too far, but then the warm-almost-hot fingers brush his cheek. 

It takes everything he has not to flinch away. The scent of thyme floats between them and Loki bites his tongue, hard, wills memories not to surface. 

“Your skin is…cold,” Sigyn murmurs and Loki shuts his eyes tightly and turns his face away. It is not shame; he does not care. Monstrous, he reminds himself, I am I am I am, all according to plan, all her revulsion just for one scrap of pity, of curiosity…

“What is the significance of these markings?” Sigyn punctuates her inquiry with a tentative swipe down his forehead, tracing the path of raised flesh. The Trickster quells a horrified shudder. 

Loki peers at her sideways, and Sigyn is waiting for an answer, curiosity glittering in her eyes, betraying her carefully stoic façade. Loki did not need to feign his open incredulity at this offering; a scholarly inquiry, a step onto neutral territory. It is not trust, but neither is it complete disbelief. Wary indulgence, perhaps. 

Loki silently prefers to name it a foothold. 

“I do not know,” Loki confesses. Sigyn traces one of the lines, following it over his eye, down his cheek. Loki breathes deep, concentrates on the too-warm feel of Aesir flesh on his Jotunn skin. Sigyn tilts his chin, compelling Loki to meet her eyes. He hopes the ruby tint hides most of his turmoil, the sensory overload threatening to crack his control. (What control he has left, a mocking voice in his head cackles.) 

At last, at last, Sigyn releases her light grip and moves out of his space, settling on the stone floor a few feet away, as if she was preparing for a game of chess.

“Satisfied, Sigyn? I suspect you may find it more difficult to visit, now. You cannot deceive yourself into believing me Aesir, no matter your eloquent speeches about how little my heritage matters.” 

Loki would have flinched at how borderline pathetic his barb sounded to his own ears. 

Sigyn tilts her head, expression bland like she is waiting patiently for Loki to finish his rant. The line of her back is tense, however, and the dark voice in the back of Loki’s skull welcomes her disgust, sadistically pleased that he can witness one other’s perception of him shatter into fragments. The lonely, howling part of him wants to bask in it, reach out and revel in another’s shared revulsion, despair. 

Loki needs Sigyn to remain his guard, but he finds he can’t muster any surprise at the thought of his once-friend simply walking away, refusing to return in the wake of his true face. 

Loki watches that line of tension, searching for the moment it will break and Sigyn will be on her feet, dousing the lantern light and rushing for the door. 

Her eyes on him threaten to send a shiver down his spine. The irony is not lost on him. 

“Your eyes are lovely, Loki.” 

“What?” Loki blurts before he can stop himself. 

Sigyn’s bland expression freezes, as if she hadn’t intended to speak at all. Before Sigyn can say more, before Loki is aware the dam has broken within him, he snarls,

“Enough of your mockery!” 

Sigyn’s calm vanishes as if Loki has thrown her into a wall. 

“I am being sincere.” 

“I do not care! You are exactly like Thor in the end, aren’t you? Blind to everything but your idea of me. To Hel with both of you! Look at me; see me for what I truly am. Loki Liesmith, at his most truthful.”

To his horror, his voice cracks a little, a thin sliver in the ice of his words. 

“Tell the Allfather you have failed to soften me, Sigyn the Loyal.”

Sigyn rises to her feet, slowly. Loki cannot read her face. 

“Very well.” 

And the light is returned to the lantern and the cell is doused in darkness. True fear crawls across the Trickster’s skin as his one chance for survival walks calmly to the door and through without looking back. The low boom of the door closing is his death knell. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

Failure. 

It echoes in her mind even as Loki’s broken tirade rings in her ears. She has failed yet again. 

She almost wishes for another mark on her face to signify such an astronomical misstep in her duty. 

True, she plans to wait Loki out, at least for a month’s time in the hope that he will ask for her, prove that Sigyn has not pushed Loki right over the precipice into true despair and madness. 

Sigyn is not optimistic. 

She ascends from the dungeons and meets Thor at the first checkpoint, where she pauses to gather her weapons, knotting the leather belt at her waist with a ferocious tug. 

“What has happened?” Thor demands the second he catches sight of Sigyn. Sigyn blinks owlishly at him, shocked that her distress is written so clearly on her face despite her efforts to conceal it. 

She debates telling the Thunderer “nothing” and continuing her journey to the surface in silence, but to rebuff Thor would cruelly mirror Loki’s own actions to his brother. Sigyn meets Thor’s electric stare for a brave moment, turns to continue up the stone steps. Thor falls in beside her.

“Loki….requested that I no longer visit.” Sigyn does not tell Thor about the frost giant chained up in the cell; she guesses that if she revealed Loki’s weakened state Thor would demand to see him, and no matter how great Thor’s love for his brother, Thor would flinch instinctively at the initial sight of an enemy and that would wound Loki deeply enough to send him back into himself, perhaps over the edge and into an abyss out of which he could not crawl. 

Thor’s hand on her shoulder makes her stumble a step. He turns her to face him. 

“Lady Sigyn, what has happened?” 

“I pushed him too far,” Sigyn answers simply. In some respects it is the truth; Sigyn had insisted on crowding Loki’s space when he was at his most vulnerable, going so far as to speak her mind about the ruby tint to his eyes. 

(For once, she hadn’t intended the words to throw him; Loki’s half-wild expression, so similar to a look she was accustomed to (that he usually wore after a week without sleep, granted, but still familiar) coupled with the startling ruby hue had simply surprised the words from her.) 

Now she fears the unintended kindness was too much, as overwhelming and unwelcome as Thor’s own blind love, true though it is. 

Sigyn stares hard over Thor’s right shoulder, unable to meet the crown prince’s eyes. She can almost feel waves of defeat coming off her, idly wonders why Thor is not raging at her or demanding a clearer explanation. Thor does open his mouth, but the approach of a royal messenger interrupts the confrontation. 

“My lord, the Allfather demands your presence in the throne hall.” Thor acknowledges the summons before turning back to Sigyn, gripping her shoulder again briefly. 

“We are not finished, yet. Wait for me outside the hall until we may speak again.”

Thor and Sigyn share a dark look before Thor hurries off, followed by Sigyn and the messenger. 

“What is this about?” Sigyn murmurs. The messenger just shakes his head. Sigyn’s heart begins to pound as she takes in the tension in the messenger’s jaw, the urgency of his step. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

They wait outside the throne hall for the better part of an hour. Sigyn gives up on soldierly stoicism five minutes in and paces, turning quick and sharp in front of the side door. The messenger waits until Sigyn begins to fiddle with the hilt of her sword then flees with a hurried excuse. 

Thor bursts through the door suddenly, nearly knocking Sigyn across the corridor. 

Rage blazes from the Thunderer and dark storm clouds gather, blackening the windows and sending long rolls of thunder across the sky. 

“Loki is in danger,” Thor growls low, almost to himself, whirling and striding back toward the dungeons. 

Sigyn scrambles to follow. 

“My lor- Thor. Thor, please.” She darts in front of him and Thor’s hand is raised to shove her aside before he checks himself. 

“Tell me, what danger? With whom did the Allfather have an audience?” 

“An ambassador of the Chitauri,” Thor spits out ‘ambassador’ like a curse. 

Sigyn freezes in shock. Thor takes advantage and sidesteps past her, raising the hairs on Sigyn’s arms and neck with static charge as his anger threatens to boil over. Sigyn jogs to keep up. 

“Ambassador? What did he want?” 

Sigyn already knows the answer, if Thor’s reaction is anything to go by. But she must know the ambassador’s words exactly. 

“The Chitauri demand my brother be turned over to them to be punished for his crimes against them. He claims they will not take Loki’s life, but I have seen them. The Chitauri are little more than savage beasts. If Loki goes with this Other,” Thor spits the title like it carries a vile taste, “they will destroy him.” 

“Surely the Allfather will refuse,” Sigyn replies. 

Thor’s expression darkens and lightning flashes close, nearly blinding Sigyn. 

“The Other spoke in such a way as to suggest the Chitauri and his…master will be inclined to take Loki by force, if necessary.” 

“What is the Chitauri army against the might of Asgard?” Sigyn almost snarls, a sharp bolt of anger snaking up her throat at the veiled threat. 

“My father is wary of this master,” Thor rumbles. Leather creaks as Thor’s grip on Mjolnir tightens. 

They are nearly to the first checkpoint before Sigyn remembers where Thor is going and moves to block him, panic rising anew and for at least a dozen new reasons. 

“Thor, you cannot see Loki.” 

“I must ensure his safety. Do not stand between my brother and me now, Sigyn. I will see no harm come to him.” 

“Listen to me!” Sigyn growls at him, all pretense of politeness gone. Thor does pause at that, meets Sigyn’s eyes. 

“If you see him now, Loki will sense your worry; he will know something is amiss. Loki will panic and attempt an escape. At this moment, Loki is most protected in his cell where he cannot be detected.” 

“The Chitauri will guess what he is imprisoned,” Thor argues.

“Do you doubt me, Thor?” 

“Of course not Sigyn, but-“

Sigyn lets her magic flare and Mjolnir actually sparks as her energy expands to fill the corridor. A simple spell, not truly a display of power so much as an illusion of vastness and presence, but Thor doesn’t need to know that. 

“Do you,” Sigyn growls low again, “doubt my ability to shield and protect your brother?

“I will stand between him and harm, even at the cost of my life. Do you doubt the oath of a warrior of Asgard?” 

After a few tense seconds, Thor grinds out,

“I do not.” 

Sigyn lets her energy dissipate, invisible mist carried away by the remnants of the storm. Decorum long abandoned, Sigyn lays a hand on Thor’s arm, willing the crown prince to calm, to understand. Or at least cooperate. 

Thor lets out a harsh breath and nods sharply. Sigyn thanks Odin that she doesn’t have to explain Loki’s…Jotunn state, or her belief that should Thor appear to Loki now, the Trickster would surely manipulate Thor into aiding his escape, witting or not. 

But not before Thor would flinch and Loki would be vindicated in his belief that he is a true monster. 

Sigyn hates the deception with the very marrow of her bones, marvels at the ease with which Loki has woven falsehoods with his tongue, to Thor, no less. At least Sigyn’s intentions are noble.  
It doesn’t stop the roiling in her gut, however. 

“Will you stand by Odin and listen to the Other’s counsel? It would be prudent to know every detail the ambassador chooses to reveal.” 

“Of course. I would have you stay nearer to the cell, as well.” 

Sigyn fists a hand over her heart and bows in acquiescence. As if the action pains him to the bone, Thor turns away from the cells, slowly strides back towards the throne room. Thunder rumbles distant, but sunlight creeps back through the windows to cast the crown prince’s retreating back in flashes of crimson and gold. 

All of Sigyn’s breath leaves her in a rush. Already her mind races with half-made plans and ideas, complicated twice over by the loss of Loki’s glamour, the presence of the ambassador, Sigyn’s banishment from the cell….

Sigyn pinches the bridge of her nose. Perhaps the plans were complicated twice over anyway. 

Red eyes burn in her mind. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

Sigyn sleeps in a vacant cell that night, several levels above Loki’s prison. The next morning-and she only knows the sun has risen because a guard informs her-she slips into the royal library, sneaks through the stacks six times her height to find the old anthropological records on Jotunheim. 

The section yields little more than speculation on the physiological aspects of Jotunn magic; most are accounts of how it has been used in battle. 

It is with some relief mingled with disappointment that Sigyn find no documentation to indicate torture or experimentation; if Asgard battles against Jotunheim, there are no prisoners taken. 

With one glaring exception, Sigyn muses grimly. 

Sigyn considers asking for a private audience with Odin, but the presence of the Chitauri ambassador eats at her. She realizes her hands are fisting on the table and forces herself to take a breath and relax. No, Sigyn is a loyal warrior but no fool, and Odin has been known to hold his own counsel at times of great turmoil, lest enemies catch whispers of the Allfather’s clever schemes. Sigyn trusts Odin to call for her should the need arise; in the meantime Sigyn will gather knowledge and attempt to be prepared to ensure Loki does not perish, from the blade of an assassin or the poisonous leech to his magic. 

Loki had snarled and lashed out, true, but even with the drastic change of his appearance Sigyn saw telltale signs: Loki was afraid. 

Worried, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Loki’s chides in her head. The Trickster would never allow what he perceived as weakness to show unless he feared something more than Sigyn’s perception of chinks in his mask.

It is also entirely possible that Loki was simply afraid and unable to hide it. 

The revelation of his Jotunn form irritated him, yes, but not enough for him to unconsciously curl into himself, jaw tight as if clamping down on any truths that might escape. 

Did Loki know? 

How? The Chitauri ambassador arrived after Loki had been sapped of his magic; Sigyn knows this to be true; the manacles are incapable of falsehood. And even if he did, why then would he bite the only hand that could aid him, the last line of his defense, should the Chitauri attempt to take him? 

Sigyn catches her fingers drumming on the page of the massive book of records from the Jotunn war and lays her hand flat over the runes. 

Too many variables, too much that fit ill together. Is this the madness Thor claimed plagues his little brother? 

Truth or lie through his teeth, Sigyn knows she must at least be prepared. Suppressing a yawn, she rises and heads for the new conservatory where the tomes might actually prove useful. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

The damp chill of the cell no longer bothers him and he finds he can now just barely make out the seam of the cell door, a paper -thin grey line punctuating the black. 

The dull pull of his manacles has abated as well; without his innate shape shifting ability holding his Aesir form to him, the shackles had little more to take from him. A shudder ran unbidden up Loki’s spine at the thought. 

Even if he has lured Sigyn into action, would he be able to so much as conjure an illusion, much less teleport away at the right moment? 

 

~ ~ ~

 

A flare in the spell of protection jolts Sigyn out of her slumber. A quick second look and she curses, slides her weapons into place and bolts for the door, tiny flames already on her fingertips. 

Cursing Loki for refusing to teach her to teleport, Sigyn dives down the steps, skidding to a halt one level above Loki’s cell. She presses a hand to the ground and sends the sensory spell into the stone, picking up the presence of the guard on duty-Skada, Sigyn believes- the void where Loki’s cell remains (thankfully) unbreached, and-

There. Five, no, six presences approaching from the opposite direction, already halfway down to the cell’s level. Sigyn launches herself down the last flight of stairs in time to throw a shield up and prevent Skada’s death at the blast of Chitauri energy. 

As one, the guards charge the group. The Chitauri pause, startled at the headlong rush and that second is enough for Sigyn and Skada to drive swords through two and slash open the chest of a third. Sigyn dodges under the blast of energy and springs up, sword first, driving the blade through an assassin’s chin. Skada pins another to the wall with his spear, barely blocking the knife of the last Chitauri standing. Sigyn cuts it down from behind and Skada twists the spear viciously until the last assassin stills with a wet gurgle in its throat. 

“Who-what in the Nine,” Skada pants, grimacing down at the corpses littering the corridor. 

“Would-be assassins,” Sigyn answers shortly. “Inform the Allfather.” She grabs Skada’s arm as he moves. “Be discreet. There is more than the prisoner’s life at stake here.” 

He nods gravely and runs for the stairs, pausing only to place his bloody spear against the wall and gather his cloak about his bloodstained tunic. 

Sigyn hauls the Chitauri bodies out of sight of the cell as quickly as she can, then scrubs the blood off the walls and floor by splitting the greasy black stuff into its most basic atoms. 

Sigyn turns and runs her hands along the wall, searching for the nearly invisible seam, mind racing with half-conceived plans, possibilities, the only fact she is certain of is that Loki’s position is compromised, and she has an excuse to barge into the cell. 

Any plans beyond that, well. They are blown all to Hel, Sigyn knows. 

With one last check to make sure her own tunic is free of blood, Sigyn gives a push in just the right section of wall and watches the stone swing inward. 

Ruby eyes blink up at her in surprise. 

Sigyn wastes no time; in three quick strides she is across the cell, conjured mallet in hand. She pins Loki’s right palm to the wall to keep his hand from moving and taps the ring that lashes the manacles to the wall once, twice, sending a spell of deterioration deep into the small ring of un-enchanted metal. The chain crumbles into fine dust. Sigyn keeps a hold of the Trickster’s wrist, gently bends his arm until the crook of his elbow rests on the crown of his head, preventing a sudden rush of blood flow and unnecessary pain. 

Loki grunts as his left arm overlays his right. Sigyn grips him around the shoulders and hauls him to his feet. Loki sways but remains upright, lowers his hands slowly with a small pained noise. As soon as the Trickster appears steady, Sigyn takes a hold of the remnants of the chains and makes for the corridor. 

“And before you ask, no, I am not removing the gag.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please leave a review! Let me know what you think; constructive criticism is always welcomed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing except Sigyn's scar and Sigyn's blunt way of breaking news. Loki owns 90% of the sass and Thor gets the remaining 10%.

 

* * *

 

All of Thor’s newly acquired self-control is put to the test as the Other pleads its case before Odin. It recites the long list of grievances (thievery, betrayal, attempted mass genocide-of the _Chitauri_ , no less), its covered face meeting Odin’s eye despite its apparent blindness.

 

Odin himself remains stoic, as he has for the past hour or two while he waits the Other out, interjecting only a few times to repeat his refusal to release the prisoner to the Chitauri’s care, refuting the Other’s arguments with his own list of Loki’s misdeeds against Asgard as proof that he should be punished there.

 

To Thor it seems as if his father and the hateful creature are attempting to debate one another to death, though for what purpose the crown prince cannot fathom.

 

Nor does he wish to; his patience vanished three minutes into this pedantic mess.

 

The growing twilight seems to rouse Odin into action. Every muscle in Thor tenses in anticipation as the Allfather straightens on his throne and brings Gungnir down with a gentle but resounding _boom_.

 

“As it seems that we will not reach a compromise on this day, let the ambassador from the Chitauri find rest and refreshment in the guest wings of the palace. This discussion of terms will be resumed on the morrow.”

 

It took everything in Thor not to gape at his father or hurl Mjolnir at the Other, the foul scraping thing that acquiesced and was led away with (surprisingly) little fuss.

 

The moment the Other is out of earshot Thor turns to Odin.

 

“Father, what-“

 

“Thor, have you spoken to Sigyn today?”

 

“I-well, yes. But what does that-“

 

“I require her presence; I would speak to her on a matter concerning the orchard.”

 

“The orchard? What-“

 

“Now, Thor.”

 

Before Thor can protest or storm off- quite literally-the side door swings open and a prison guard bows low, panting slightly in the doorframe.

 

“Speak,” Odin barks before the guard can even move forward.

 

“The cell has been compromised,” he says. “There was…an attack. The prisoner is unharmed.”

 

“Where is he?”

 

“With Sigyn.”

 

“And where is Sigyn.”

 

“I…she was outside the cell, when I left…”

 

“Very well, return to your post and bring her here,” Odin interrupts swiftly. Skada bows and retreats. Thor watches his father’s eye go a little distant, a calculating expression he’d grown so accustomed to seeing on his little brother’s face drawing creases in the Allfather’s forehead. This look terrifies Thor more than he’d care to admit. For this reason he waits patiently for Odin to speak, holding his ire in check.

 

“Thor. My son. I must give you a task that you will find nearly impossible to accomplish.”

 

“What is it, Father?” Thor asks, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet, his blood already singing for battle.

 

“Return to your chambers and have dinner with your mother.”

 

“Wh-what? Are you truly asking me to-“

 

“-do nothing. Yes. I am ordering you as your king to keep Frigga company until you are sent for.”

 

Through his red haze, Thor hears Jane’s voice, telling him to count to ten before he smashes the stove.

 

“I hope that I have not overestimated your love for your own son,” Thor bites out, surprised at his own vehemence toward his father. “I can see no wisdom in this action. I can see no wisdom in keeping me from Loki. I, who can protect him best.”

 

A flicker of what might have been sadness passes over the Allfather at Thor’s words. Just as quickly it is gone and a steel-eyed king remains.

 

“It is in Loki’s best interests that I do any of this. I do not ask you to understand or condone, but I do expect you to _obey_ , Crown Prince.”

 

Lest he forcibly try to wrest Gungnir from Odin’s grip and de-throne his father, Thor whirls and strides away to fetch his mother. Perhaps madness runs in the family, Thor thinks darkly as he slams the side door behind him.   

 

* * *

 

The Chitauri had moved too quickly. Far too quickly for Loki’s liking. The attack had followed too closely on the heels of his confrontation with Sigyn. Days, if that, Loki guessed: scant enough time to plant the seeds of curiosity in Sigyn’s mind, much less spur her to action.

 

Loki curses himself thrice over for _losing focus_. The whole exchange could have gone over with a more favorable outcome if only the Trickster hadn’t drawn Sigyn’s attention away from the effects of his shackles and onto his detestable second skin.

 

Now all Loki can do is observe and pray his machinations have taken root.

 

Now, Sigyn leads him into a labyrinth of catacombs that he knows will take them out from beneath the palace walls. The shackles weigh heavy on Loki’s atrophied arms and he must work to keep from stumbling in the near black of the tunnel, as the small fire in Sigyn’s palm provides only a pittance of light. Her hold over the flame seems to waver as they move. Loki cannot say with surety that the flame’s weakness is entirely the work of the shackles, either. He guesses that his sorcerer-cum-warrior guard is not accustomed to using her magic in a combat situation. A typical practice, of course, as magic is so _repugnant_ to _every Aesir_ , it seemed, but Loki is disappointed nonetheless.

 

At long last, they find a narrow set of stairs cut into the right hand wall, leading up to a trapdoor. Sigyn climbs the stairs with the length of Loki’s chains over one shoulder, heavy but manageable. Loki works to keep his balance and prides himself on only stumbling into Sigyn once.

 

They emerge in a tiny cellar, obviously rarely used, if the lack of foodstuffs and the thick layer of dust is any indication. The frantic thump of booted feet sounds overhead, punctuated by sharp commands. They are under a barracks, then, Loki guesses. Most likely Sigyn’s own company.

 

After sealing the entrance to the catacombs, Sigyn leads Loki to the foot of the cellar steps, then takes his arm and turns him sharply to face her.

 

“Do not move from this spot, or I will hunt you down and put a sword through you myself and tell the court it was in self-defense. Is that understood?”

 

When Loki refuses to answer, Sigyn grips his chin, forcing his blood red eyes to meet hers. Loki wonders why she doesn’t flinch at the sight of him. All he can see is steely determination in the hard lines of her face, all he could feel in the press of her fingers, hot on his Jotunn skin.

 

Loki gives a short nod and just as suddenly Sigyn withdraws, hurrying up the stairs and through the door.

 

Loki is no fool. His best chances are with Sigyn, but it doesn’t stop the sting of his pride at being forced to wait like a pet for its master. Especially with the temptation of escape so tantalizingly close. But he knows that true freedom must be bought with just a little more patience.

 

The Trickster lets his arms dangle with the weight of the chains and sinks to the ground to wait.

 

* * *

 

 

Sigyn rubs the fingers of her right hand together absently, urging warmth back into them after the icy bite of Loki’s skin.

 

Sigyn finds Theoric just outside the barracks, watching his company scramble for their weapons and armor, mouth set in a grim line. Sigyn pauses beside him.

 

“Captain.”

 

“Sigyn!” Theoric turns to her in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

 

She smiles wryly.

 

“What a question to ask a member of your own company. I need your aid,” she continues before Theoric can ask, “With a matter in need of some discretion.”

 

“What ever you need, you have it,” Theoric replied instantly. Sigyn feels some of the tension leave her shoulders.

 

“I thank you. Do not allow anyone near the cellar in our barracks. I will find you again at nightfall.”

 

“Sigyn,” Theoric calls and she pauses just before the barrack doors, looks back over her shoulder. “Do you know anything that may clarify this situation?” He waves a hand in the direction of the organized chaos of soldiers preparing for battle.

 

She shakes her head. “I know little more than you. Just….be ready for whatever may occur.”

 

“You as well,” Theoric replies gravely.

 

* * *

 

“The Chitauri have come,” Sigyn begins without preamble. Loki’s nails dig into his palms reflexively, not entirely a performance. He scowls at the floor as Sigyn explains the kidnapping attempt that forced her to move him. Loki’s eyes widen as she reveals that the Other had been attempting some farce at diplomacy with Odin, now revealed as a stalling tactic for the Chitauri assassins to find Loki.

 

As Sigyn explains the details Loki forces air into his lungs a few times until the boiling rage at the Allfather reduces again to a simmer.

 

_Do you have use of me, now, Odin? Your relic is of some import at last?_

 

At least Sigyn reacted as Loki had predicted, removing the magic-dry frost giant runt from immediate danger.

 

Though the barracks cellar bore a striking resemblance to his prison.

 

He assures himself that he is safe, he is protected and he is so close to freedom he can taste it in the dried blood on his tongue.

 

* * *

 

 

Sigyn finds Theoric on a grassy field near the training arena. Warriors mill about several small bonfires, roasting pounds of meat over the fires as blades are sharpened and cleaned. The sound of amiable chatter hums in the air, but beneath it is a hushed readiness. Every well-trained ear and eye is on alert.

 

Theoric offers her half a loaf of bread and Sigyn allows herself a few bites-she hasn’t eaten at all today, her stomach reminds her with a rumble-before drawing her commander a little ways from would-be prying ears.

 

“I have been ordered to oversee the guard of a prisoner in the palace,” Sigyn begins bluntly. “His identity must be kept secret, lest he be taken by interlopers from Asgard.”

 

A beat passes in which Theoric politely does not mention that everyone already knows the prisoner’s identity.

 

“Today would-be assassins located his cell, made an attempt on his life. My only option now is to remove him from prying eyes. It is a great risk, to you and our company to hide him away thus and I do not plan to stay long. With your leave, I would keep him under the barracks for a few days’ time, before I can move him safely elsewhere.”

 

“This…ambassador is one of his allies, then,” Theoric murmurs.

 

“ _Was_ an ally. It seems terms have soured since.”

 

“I see.”

 

They walk in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally Theoric says,

 

“You have my leave, with a condition. You are to inform me of your plans to move the prisoner when it is safe to do so. It is foolishness to have no eyes at one’s back, even if you are operating in secret.”

 

After a pause, Sigyn nods.

 

“As you wish, Captain.”

 

“All this secrecy and deception,” Theoric muses with a heavy exhale. “I’m finding it more tiresome by the minute.”

 

“You are not alone,” Sigyn says wryly.

 

* * *

 

Sigyn locks and barricades the cellar door with the remains of a wooden shelf. Loki watches her place a bag of what smelled of fresh meat and a water skin nearby.  He considers uncurling himself and snatching the food but finds the lead in his limbs too cumbersome for the moment. The weakness disgusts him; he will be useless if he cannot regain a little strength and soon.

 

Sigyn goes to work on the length of chain, murmuring a simple spell of deterioration. The mundane metal slowly crumbles into fine dust until only the shackles around Loki’s wrists remain, pulling eagerly at Sigyn’s magic until sweat beads at her brow as she fights to complete the spell.

 

By the time she has finished, her breathing is labored and Loki knows that if she had any doubts about the shackles’ power to drain him dry, they are quelled now. 

 

Sigyn walks to a cluster of dust-covered crates and settles on the one nearest the cellar steps. After a flicker of hesitation, Loki unfolds and walks the two paces over to sit across from her.

 

Sigyn says, “I need you to instruct me how to walk between Yggdrasil’s branches.”

 

Loki’s shocked “what?!” is muffled by the gag. Sigyn half-smiles, holds up a placating hand.

 

“Hear me out and don’t interrupt.”

 

Loki’s poisonous glare could melt the flesh from her face if he possessed an inkling of magic, Sigyn thinks.

 

“You need to disappear long enough for Asgard to prove that you are not present so that the Allfather can banish the Chitauri under lawful grounds of trespassing in the Realms. The Other would not risk an open war with Asgard. Unless of course, his master is not so weakened by the battle on Midgard?”

 

Loki schools his face into impassivity, unable to convince himself of either force’s superior power. Without the Tesseract Thanos is limited, cannot travel to the Nine Realms in less than several years’ time, by Loki’s estimate. Once the Mad Titan arrives, however…

 

Loki dearly hopes that he is able to bear witness to that conflict between Asgard and the Lover of Death. From a safe distance.

 

Sigyn’s lips thin as she considers Loki’s reaction.

 

“Either way we are leaving, and I require your assistance.”

 

He weighs the benefit of staying in Asgard, prompting the Other to lash out and Odin to retaliate, weakening the Chitauri forces further. It would be a heavy risk to take. Loki would have to gamble his life on the determination of his guards (considerable) and the conviction that the Allfather will not bargain his false son’s life in exchange for peace (unlikely). Loki wonders if, should Odin call for it, Sigyn would hand him over to the Other herself.

 

The thought is more disturbing than he cares to admit.

 

No, the better choice is and always has been _away_ , away from Asgard and the Other. With more distance arises more opportunity for true freedom. Sigyn is clever enough to wish to hide him off of Asgard, (as Loki hoped she would decide to do.) He did not, however, consider that she would not take the Bifrost or some other (far more reliable) form of transportation.

 

It is a high price for secrecy, but deep in his bones Loki knows it is necessary if he has a chance to survive. That didn’t make the idea any less ridiculous.

 

Seemingly satisfied by his expression (his haughty glare must have fallen without his notice), Sigyn reaches around Loki’s head and lets the muzzle slip into her hands. Loki snatches the flask of water from the ground and drains half of it in one go, obscenely pleased to hold the damn thing himself to drink.

 

“You are asking to learn a technique so complex it takes years to master in the span of-what, a night?” Loki asks, dripping incredulity.

 

Sigyn shrugs.

 

“Perhaps three days, at most.”

 

Loki’s eyebrows are surely gracing his hairline. Sigyn drops the flippancy.

 

“I have studied Realm-walking before. I can sense the branches of Yggdrasil, and the gaps between, otherwise I would not bother to ask. We need not travel far, just enough so that the Allfather can claim truthfully that you are not in Asgard.”

 

Loki miscalculated. Sigyn is as mad as he is accused to be.

 

“Is this really the best plan you could formulate?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Instead, you could-“

 

“No.”

 

Loki snarls. 

 

“This is idiotic. It is more likely that we will both perish or fall into the void than find safe haven.”

 

“That is probably true,” Sigyn agrees and Loki has trouble resisting the urge to bash his head against the wall in an effort to find some _sense_ in Sigyn’s plan. “But the alternative is unacceptable.” And that steely intensity creeps back into her voice.

 

“I will not risk the lives of Asgard’s soldiers, much less its citizens in open confrontation when I have the chance-however slim it may be-to prevent bloodshed. You will teach me, Loki, and we will either escape to relative safety or we will die between the branches. Asgard is spared with either outcome.”

 

A memory comes unbidden to Loki: in the labyrinth of rock and steel beneath Midgard, Barton deep in conversation with a group of hired mercenaries as he gestures to the Helicarrier plans on the table before them.

 

“Take out these security feeds first,” he’d said, “Or we’re royally fucked.”

 

Royally fucked.

 

Loki is well and truly tired of irony.

 

“Very well, Sigyn the Loyal,” he bites out, “Let us save Asgard with a blundering show of misplaced heroism. Thor will be so proud.”

 

That startles a laugh out of Sigyn and Loki feels a smile tug at his lips, despite everything.

 

* * *

 

Dumb luck (for Thor) brings Skada across the Crown Prince’s path on his way to his mother’s chambers.

_“Missing_?! Explain yourself!” Thor roars, crowding Skada into the wall. In a feat of incredible bravery Skada doesn’t tremble before the seething crown prince.

 

“When I returned, Sigyn and…and the prisoner were gone. I have no knowledge of their current whereabouts, and none have seen them.”

 

_Count to ten, Thor_ , Jane’s soothing voice repeats over and over again. The Thunderer closes his eyes, counting slowly. Skada glances desperately up and down the corridor, but neither help nor potential witnesses to his demise arrive.

 

A heavy hand falls on Skada’s shoulder and he chokes on a fearful squeak.

 

“You will tell the Allfather what you have told me,” Thor rumbles quietly. “Come.”

 

Skada thanks every star in the cosmos and allows Thor to guide him toward the throne room.

 

* * *

 

 

“Can you see it? Its branches woven through space, time, through the heart of every Realm. It shines in the darkness of the Void, too bright to behold. Its energy calls to yours. Answer it, allow it to mesh with your _seidr_.”

 

Loki sees the moment that Sigyn connects. Sweat breaks out on her brow. She draws a ragged breath against the sudden enormity expanding in her chest, the feeling of indescribable power flowing through her like a conduit.

 

“Don’t fight it, open your channels.”

 

Sigyn grunts as more arcane energy than she has ever felt _pours_ through her like a dam has broken, threatening to pull her under, into it, come loose from her physical body and disintegrate into pieces of the Yggdrasil.

 

“Open your eyes.”

 

Sigyn does. Instead of the cellar, she sees a burning silver branch stretched out into the universe, at least a quarter mile wide. It pulses and threatens to drag her to her knees as silver energy washes over her, covering her body in what appears at first glance to be stardust. It slowly begins to burn.

 

“Look around you. Count the branches you can see.”

 

Sigyn turns slowly, ignoring the growing pain to catalogue each twisting silver branch stretching for what seems eternity into the void. A shining sphere glimmers off of one branch nearby. Sigyn notes it to ask Loki and continues her slow revolution, until the brilliance suddenly becomes blinding in her peripheral vision.

She must have made a noise or said something because Loki’s voice is in her ear, low and urgent.

 

“Don’t look at the heart, you will burn to ash.”

 

Sigyn closes her eyes and makes to turn away, but the silver energy surrounding her begins to dig into her skin, taking tiny pieces of her until blood runs down her limbs, her chest, her back-

 

“Sigyn, listen to me!”

 

Two icy palms on her face snap her back into awareness. She tears away from the branch and it is like ripping hooks out of her flesh, but suddenly there is earth and the dank smell of old food and two hands framing her face that nearly _burn_ like the branch, they are so cold.

 

Sigyn opens her eyes and Loki drops his hands as she doubles over, coughing wetly until she spits blood. It is everywhere, she realizes, seeping through her torn tunic and trousers.

 

“Tried to pull me apart,” she gasps, sinking to the floor. Loki follows, folding his legs underneath him.

 

“Yes, it tends to do that,” he says as if commenting on the weather. Sigyn snaps,

 

“That would have been pertinent to know!”

 

It is Loki’s turn to shrug, feign some casual indifference and Sigyn is almost sorry that she did that to him for weeks, it makes her blood boil so.

 

“I had no way to be sure until you stepped onto the branch.”

 

Sigyn bites back an incredulous reply in favor of hauling herself to her feet and hobbling over to the stash of healing elixirs in the darkest corner of the cellar, procured for just this kind of eventuality.

 

“Well now you are sure. Tell me how to avoid disintegrating on contact.”

 

Sigyn uncorks one vial and drains it. She closes her eyes as the potion spreads to her myriad of slashes, knitting up the skin as neatly as if it were never cut open. The elixir’s power circles furiously around her scar for a moment before it fades, unable to break the barrier Sigyn has placed around it.

 

“So cordial,” Loki drawls, “I don’t recall this acerbity around Eir.”

 

“Eir never sent me into a metaphysical plane to be flayed alive!”

 

“That wasn’t my intention and you know it!”

 

“Do I?”

 

They glare at each other, Sigyn’s fingers twitching like the muscle in Loki’s jaw. Finally, as if a light is doused, the tension seeps out of the room. Sigyn exhales sharply and begins to pace, ignoring the lingering soreness of her skin.

 

Loki runs a hand through his hair, grimacing at its oily texture.

 

“This is the difficult part, the one that prevents most sorcerers from successfully walking the Paths Between. To open oneself to Yggdrasil opens the current, but to walk upon the branches requires the strength of will to cling to one’s unique _seidr_ , one’s very soul. Few sorcerers can open their conduits to the World Tree; fewer still can manipulate the conduit without being torn apart, going mad or simply falling. This is why you will fail.”

 

“So, your intention was to intimidate me out of doing this?”

 

“I wanted to show you the futility of such a feat, yes.”

 

Six paces to the far wall. Turn. Six paces to the Trickster. Turn.

 

“But I did open the conduits,” Sigyn whispers at last, revelation washing over her.

 

“What?”

 

Sigyn whirls on Loki.

 

“I opened the conduits! I stood on the branch, I saw the paths.”

 

“Yes, and you nearly died,” Loki deadpans, “Forgive me if I don’t applaud.”

 

“I can do this,” Sigyn says, conviction returning with the force of a tide.

 

“No, you cannot,” Loki replies matter-of-factly. Sigyn kneels in front of him to look him in the eye.

 

“Oh, yes I can, if the key to it all is strength of will.”

 

And there is the unspoken, _if you can do it, so can I_ blazing out of Sigyn’s every pore, familiar pig-headed determination that so riles Loki in Thor but sets his nerves singing in Sigyn. For hers is for knowledge, for true power.

 

_Well,_ Loki thinks, _that was easy_.

 

“I’ll be back with food, then we begin again,” Sigyn says, closing the debate with a sharp nod as she rises and heads for the stairs.

 

As soon as the door closes behind her, Loki slumps against the wall and dares to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, any feedback is appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Part Deux: Some clarifications- I read the story of Loki and Sigyn and thought it was a pretty misogynistic mashup of a marriage, not to mention Sigyn's brilliant decision to stick with the guy that just murdered her betrothed because of the fine print. Don't get me started on Marvel's take on the whole debacle. 
> 
> So. Needless to say I didn't like those versions, decided 'to hell with it' and wrote Sigyn the way I'd imagine someone who has to interact with the god of mischief on a regular basis might act: as a professional detector/deflector of B.S. I tried to stay loyal (haha, I made a pun) to Sigyn's own title as the goddess of loyalty when reconstructing her character, however. I thought it wouldn't be much fun if I didn't have something canonical with which to play, and I hope you enjoy the result. Even if you didn't, leave me a review and let me know what you think!


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